


The Envoy

by Edie Temple (HowNovel)



Category: Starman (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-01-27
Updated: 1995-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 79,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNovel/pseuds/Edie%20Temple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott's teacher has a high degree of psionics, and discovers the difference in Paul, and vice versa. At the same time, "someone" is sent to retrieve Paul, however the learning experiences that form his human personality are vastly different from the first Starman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Envoy

The Envoy

By Edith Maxine Temple (deceased)  
Copyright: June 1988  
Revised: January 1995

THE ENVOY is a non-profit, amateur publication written for the enjoyment of STARMAN fans, and is not meant to infringe upon the copyrights held by Henerson-Hirsch and Michael Douglas Production, Columbia Pictures Television, or ABC-TV. THE ENVOY is a work of fiction, and the characters herein are purely fictitious, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Introduction

The original introduction I wrote for this story has gotten itself lost among the various rewrites and other stories at my house. Since I could find it nowhere among the disk files either (obviously erased with some old backups), I have no more guesses left as to its whereabouts or even why it was separated from the story in the first place. Oh, well. There were a few things I wanted to add to it anyway.

THE ENVOY was written shortly before I moved to Lubbock (fall of 1988). No doubt, some of the frustration I was feeling at the time over getting the house sold and having to start another job in another city where I knew only two people (and racing to get it all done before the S&L, where I was still working at the time, went under) seeped into the story, seen mostly in the form of Scott's off-and-on depression. It had been almost fourteen years since I had last moved to a totally new area, away from everyone I knew. While some might see the whole thing as an adventure, the upheaval involved in a move that takes you to a new place with new faces, etc., (not to mention the task of proving yourself all over again in a job) can really rock your routine and even erode your self-confidence for a time. At least, I will say, it did mine. I began to experience some very empathetic—rather than just sympathetic—feelings for Scott (who usually seemed to me to like the "adventure" of travel somewhat less than his dad, who still saw the majority of things as "new").

I'd like to make a note here. During the January 95 revision, I changed the name of the town where Paul and Scott were residing. While I had just picked up a map and pointed my finger on a spot near the park, I had based the town (originally Three Rivers) on the small towns common to the area in south Texas where I grew up. Individuals and places within the town are, of course, totally imaginary. However, some readers were quick to point out that Three Rivers, California, did not have such and such or this or that or the streets were different, and so forth, so I took that problem totally out of the picture by changing the name to a non-existent place (which I should have done in the first place). After all, I have to admit that I was never quite content with the fact that, on an episode of the A-TEAM, the writers placed my home county adjacent to Dallas County and made it an extremely rich place, complete with TV and station. The county (400 miles to the south of Dallas, in reality) is made up of small—very small—farms and family businesses. The day it gets a TV station (it still records its births and deaths by hand in record books) is the day we'll have tour starbuses to the moon! All in all, I got the folks' point who were telling me about the original town name. As I said, the name is now of a non-existent place, so don't try to find it on a map.

Many remarks I received from readers of THE ENVOY entailed Eric's personality and how different it was from Paul's. Some were quite adamant that it was an impossibility. Since I usually sent a letter back explaining the "whys" of what I had used in the writing of the story, I thought I might as well include those here—to get it out of the way, so to speak.

First, I guess I'll have to admit to the fact that I was trained as a sociologist with an emphasis in deviant behavior and a minor in psychology. Therefore, I sometimes have a tendency to put more emphasis on environment than on inherited traits (though, I am a firm believer in "genetic memories," but that's another story). Taking this line of thought, Paul has had a couple of very good teachers, for both adjustment and "maintenance." I consider both Jenny and Scott gentle spirits. Although, Scott had learned to be a fighter in many respects in the beginning, he quickly lapsed back to what he had learned those first three years with his mother and probably from what he had learned from the Lockharts overall.

I also remember the behaviors Starman—as Scott Hayden, Sr.—in the movie picked up that were not so gentle. Practically the first thing he did after watching the home movies at the Haydens' cabin was to pick up a gun and start firing it (copying what he saw), and he took Jenny hostage at gun point...even though he had no idea of "why." It was what he saw and had accepted as the norm—for the time being. The scare he put into the man with the tire iron was not exactly the most "peaceful" thing to have done either. It didn't take long, of course, for Jenny to correct those things, and his true personality came through easily. He progressed from there, his emotions beginning to mature from that point.

My thoughts—and questions—were, What if one of Paul's kind began his time on Earth very differently? What would happen if he learned his emotions through a totally different set of experiences? To alter the set of experiences...first, I gave Eric a task that did not entail mere observation. He had been given a specific purpose by a culture where emotions and reactions to those emotions were passe. I followed the premise that, when we try to wipe out the "grays" of life, leaving only the stark black and white, we tend to become rather unbending.

Second, I put the Earth-born Eric in an occupation that is highly competitive and involves violence ("acceptable" violence) in everyday settings. Third, I used the age-old gripe about the media influencing youngsters. What would happen to an "empty emotional vessel" like Eric who had no one around to explain to him that "it's only make believe," "it's only a movie," or "it's only a game?" What about the news and reality shows that display the prevalence of real violence? How might such a being equate all that he saw on screen with the violence he saw around outside of the media...even in the schools?

Paul has done his best to "fit in" in order not to attract attention, but he still has Scott (a guide of sorts) with him to help "maneuver" his choices. Eric would also be trying to "fit in" while he searched, but he would not have the explanations nor the balance afforded by a guide—no one telling him "this is acceptable" or "this is unacceptable."

Finally, even identical twins are not identical in every respect, and I contend that if Starman's race was a civilization of identical beings, incapable of being different, then either Paul would never have returned (going back to what he had always been—a map maker—with never a second thought as to what he had left behind) or the rest of his race would be equally intrigued by what he had learned and try to return themselves (an exaggerated view perhaps, but I would imagine you get my point). Too, I'm glad Starman did not judge the people of Earth to "all be the same."

Of course, I'm not asking you, the reader, to agree with these assumptions. I am merely explaining my point of view—as set forth in this story—related to the age-old environment/heredity question. No two sociologists or psychologists seem to be able to agree on it, so I'm certainly not going to say you should agree with me. In other words—or on the other side of it—don't come after me with a stick, saying I must agree with yours. :-) [a joking happy face, for you non-network users]. In truth, though, I have always put most of the emphasis-in the real world—on the individual and his or her abilities and willingness to adjust to (accept) or to battle what is "at hand," but, please, let's not get that philosophical here. It's just a story.

On the matter of sports... First of all—to be honest—I dislike sports. While I joined in during high school, I have never really been able to equate the idea of "being a good sport" with modern sports. The reality is that winning is everything, and no one seems to be taught how to lose. Now, please don't go ballistic at that (translation: you may be missing my point). Think about that kid you used to play with who threw a tantrum every time he/she lost a round of the game you were playing. It wasn't much fun, was it? Now, think about the coach who runs his boys around the track until they pass out because they lost their last game. Think about the high school that - for games of particular "import"- brings in older drop-outs (usually because of their larger size, and some are invariably overage) to be part of the regular team, usually for the purpose of disabling certain members of the opposing team (for either school or individual, this is virtually a no-risk situation). Am I making these up? Sorry to say...no. But, after all, what's the difference? It's just a game, right? :-(

The basketball game... Some said it was too long, others told me they wished it could have been longer. "Gee, didn't you exaggerate that basketball game a bit?" others remarked to me. Did I? Again, sorry to say...no. During part of the time I was writing the story, it was basketball season. Living in Dallas, I had no shortage of games to watch (if I had wanted), even though I didn't have the HSE network. The local stations were always loaded with them, especially on the weekends, and the cable stations were just as crowded. My dad is less of a sports fan than I am, so I realized that, if I was going to get the information I needed (after all, it was nearing 20 years since I'd seen a high school game), I would need to record one of the night games. So I did, setting the timer for a college game airing on WWOR at midnight.

I figured I could get an idea or two by watching it through a time or two and sketching some of the basic plays and using some of the rougher plays, if any. Well, as it turned out, there was no shortage of the "rougher" plays. The game was between two New York colleges, and they were rivals in the extreme. To add to this, scouts were in the audience, and the players were trying to impress them as much as possible. I did not make up any of the plays in the story. They happened as I put them in (almost wish I'd kept that tape now), and, if anything, I guess you'd have to say I toned some of them down. There were several plays where I went back and slowed the action a couple of times, thinking to myself, "He didn't really do that, did he? Casualties were numerous and blood was spilled more than once. Ah, the excitement of the game! Of course, they don't hold them in coliseums for nothing. Oops, sorry about that, letting my bias really show there. ;-)

Why did I use something I don't like in a story? Well, I might not like sports, but I have to admit that they are a good vehicle, and I've used sports in other story lines from time to time. For THE ENVOY, I needed the game particularly to show McKinnon's determination to succeed in his mission—how that determination had grown through what he had learned from the "winning is all there is" attitude he saw and heard almost every day.

I stressed the possibility of pronounced psionics because that is something that truly interests me. You will find it in varying degrees and situations in several of my writings. It just seems to sneak in. :-) Animals usually find their own place in several as well, but—take strong notice—you will never find a story where I have harmed the animal, or animals, involved. I might put them in danger, but I don't kill them. I'm very tired of seeing it on TV and at the movies and lose the enjoyment I might have otherwise had in a movie (I've even walked out before an ending a time or two).

Well, I think that about covers most of the things I've been asked about from those who have read this—those things not specifically related to Paul and Scott's relationship. I hope they help answer any questions of "why did I...?"

Edie Temple January 1995

 

If you've ever looked up at a star and wondered what other eyes in other lands and other worlds were watching that same star in the heavens, then you've brought us all one step closer together.

PREFACE

Kyle Stuart had had more than his fair share of false echoes for the month. With all the satellites and space garbage drifting in various orbits around Earth, it was a small wonder that his equipment could actually locate, much less accurately trace, anything remotely unique to the planet's atmosphere. In other words, in Lieutenant Stuart's opinion, if, under any circumstances, something out of the ordinary ever did turn up, he felt sure he would be the last to find out about it. The fact was quite contradictory to his position description, but unfortunately appeared to be all too true. All in all, Kyle was beginning to feel rather frustrated with his job and wondered whose feathers he had ruffled to get him placed on this particular air base at this particular monitoring station.

It was twilight now, over halfway through his duty shift—one bright point. Everything seemed more dismal than usual today. He was even feeling drowsier than usual, and he tried unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn. However, something blinked across the upper right-hand corner of his screen, which cut his yawn short, and he sat up straight in his chair to stare at his console. And he continued to stare at it for several minutes. Nothing.

Kyle leaned back again with a sigh. Just what he needed to end his day on a perfect note: another phantom blip. What a job! Aggravating! Frustrating! Boring! He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Three more hours were left of his shift. He crossed his arms. Make that "boring" with all caps and two explanation marks.

Another blip, further down on the right and cutting a steeper angle, displayed across his monitor. Again he sat up with a start, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. The blip blinked across the telemeter's field and indicated yet another course deviation. Then it disappeared again, but this time because it had entered an extremely dense line of cloud formations. The cumulonimbus clouds were a deterrent, even to Kyle's equipment, especially with the electrical activity that was steadily increasing in severity in the area where the blip had just vanished. The computer beside him started analyzing another string of data, trying to maintain an active trace and then began transferring the information to a printout.

Kyle, his boredom and frustration on temporary hold, picked up his phone. "Patch me through to the Colonel, will you? I've got some data up here that's going to have General Wade's personnel doing handsprings."

CHAPTER 1

Eric McKinnon, tall, blond and blue-eyed, dropped another token into the laser video. It was the fifteenth round on this particular level of the Wizard's Dungeon. Or was it the sixteenth? He shrugged. What did it matter? He had nothing better to occupy his free time, of which he seemed to have had more than his usual share lately. He broke his concentration just long enough to gulp down the last of his drink, his seventh glass. Or was it the ninth? That didn't matter much either. The bartender was definitely watering his margaritas tonight. As Eric set down his glass, he caught the eyes of a couple of young women at a nearby table. He knew they had been perusing him for some time now. He returned to his game.

Eric swore under his breath and slapped his hand against the side of the game's control base. Another penalty had just dropped him back into another level of the dungeon. He figured it was just what he deserved for dividing his attention with trivialities. However, he could not suppress the smile which broke at the corners of his mouth because he knew he had no one to blame his bad luck on but himself. The distraction was nothing new to him, his ego promptly reminded him. He was perfectly used to the looks he was receiving.

It was no secret that women—both young and old—found Eric attractive. He was 6'2", twenty-eight, and athletically built. The first two characteristics, like his blond hair and blue eyes, were merely a matter of the luck of genetics and time. The build was more a matter of hard work. He was a runner, lifted weights, and had started working out in a martial arts studio near his apartment complex. He had been in Laramie for almost six months now. Another couple months tops and he was heading out again. Too long in any one place and the cobwebs began to clutter his thoughts.

The waitress replaced his glass with another full one. He picked it up and took a long drink, then stopped a moment to pull in a deep breath. There was a haze forming around the edges of his vision. Maybe the tequila was stronger than he suspected, and Eric decided it was probably best he make this one his last. He shut his eyes, then opened them again, but it didn't help very much. He dropped his next token into the game's coin slot and started another climb through the dungeon corridors. He was going to make this game round his last one for the evening as well. The rain that the forecasters had been predicting all week looked like it just might make its appearance after all. Fall had been a pretty dry season so far, so it was needed all right. Eric yawned. However, as far as he was concerned, the only thing there was any real need for right now was a reprieve from the incessant boredom he had been living the past few months. He yawned again. He also needed some sleep.  
  
---  
  
George Fox, Special Agent for the Federal Security Agency, was preparing his briefcase to take with him on vacation. More than a little restless, he glanced again at his watch. It was quite late in the evening. He had stalled just about as long as he figured he could and get away with it. He was not quite sure why he found his holidays so depressing, although he had an idea that it was because the days were always forced on him. Ever since an incident that had occurred several months back, where the doctors had not just "presumed" but had insisted that he had suffered a heart attack, he was "obliged" by the department to take a three-day leave at least once every two months.

The whole matter had been preposterous, a gross overstatement of the facts. To make the holidays even less inviting was the fact that he had no family to share the time with, few close friends, and fewer places—other than his living room—that he cared to go to relax. His job gave him all the opportunity to travel that he cared to do. In fact, his job was his life—period. So why force him out of his office only to send him home to pace the floor until time to return to work? And pace the floor was just what he always did. As a result, he invariably returned to the office more agitated than before he had left. Crazy doctors! They had not been able to find anything wrong with him at all, since the time of the so-called "attack"—not then—not now.

Because of his thoughts, when his phone rang, his tension level was higher than usual, and he picked it up and snapped an irritated "hello" into the receiver. However, his tone immediately changed to a more congenial one when he recognized General Wade's voice coming from the other end of the line.

"Yes, how do you do, sir? Yes, sir, I was just on my way out the door. Looking forward to the time off, sir," he lied amiably—something he had become quite adept at during his time with the government. Then the amiability turned to interest—intense interest. "Wyoming. Yes. Two nights ago, you say?" Fox did his best to control his anger. It was never good to lose one's temper at the boss, especially not when that boss happened to be a four-star general. "Yes, sir. The reports are on their way to my office now. Yes, sir. I should be able to get a flight out by early morning at the latest. I understand, sir. No, sir, that's quite all right. There are always other weekends. No harm done, none at all. Thank you, sir." He cradled the receiver with deliberate care, stood quietly for a moment, then picked up the iron crystal paperweight from his desk and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall next to the door, and Wylie, Fox's assistant, had to dodge flying glass shards because he had chosen that particular moment to open the door to come into his superior's office.

Fox shook his head and released a heavy sigh. He was not too sure whether he felt badly about the emotional break he had allowed in his professional attitude or the fact that he had missed Wylie with the paperweight. He had never been very fond of the man who had been assigned to his section about six years ago.

The assistant cleared his throat, trying his best to pretend the incident had not happened. Wylie was inept with such pretense. "Uh, Mr. Fox, these just came over the wire from Colorado." He held up several sheets of 15x11-inch computer paper, lined row after row in dot matrix print.

Fox reached for them without preamble. From his talk with the general, he knew exactly what subject the paper addressed—a new sighting which radar had lost track of some hundred seventy-five miles northwest of Laramie, heading into the direction of the Laramie Mountain area. An intense cloud cover and a storm moving over southern Wyoming had thwarted all attempts to relocate it. Exactly what "it" was, they had not been able to discover yet, but whatever the object was, George Fox was intensely interested in locating it for investigation. That was, after all, his job.  
  
---  
  
Eric had a lot more on his mind than the downpour outside. He had drunk four glasses past his usual limit, and his mind was wandering in various directions. He also had very little control over it and was having a great deal of difficulty keeping his mind on the road.

There was the breakup with Jill, which was actually no big loss once he started thinking hard about it. Her IQ dwelt somewhere in the subterranean levels of the spectrum. He seemed to be falling into a lot of those kinds of relationships lately—no matter where he went. His control just was not what it used to be. He would always start out with his sights aimed higher, but the intellectuals tended to want a lot more than he was ready to give—not yet, at any rate. Of course, he was almost in his thirties now. Responsibility was supposed to go with the territory. That only took his thoughts around to the last fight he had had with his father. _When,_ his father had asked him, _was he coming back home and joining the company? GlobeLine Communications was his for the taking, if he would just straighten up his lifestyle, come home, and work his way into the corporate setup._

The first item he knew was badly needed, but he had little enthusiasm to do anything about it just now. The second, he was not too crazy about since he got along with his relatives, his old friends, and the group at the head office even less successfully than he had with this last few girl friends. The third, he just plain hated the work. It was not that he disliked the money. Far from it! If it were not for the money he still received from his grandfather's trust, he would never be able to keep up any kind of lifestyle at all—not on what that two-bit high school was paying him. That coaching job at Danbridge High in California he had been offered last month was sounding better and better all the time—so was Fresno. He needed a change—something more than the life of a cow town like Laramie.

A flash of lightning illuminated a broad section of the highway—or where there should have been a highway. Eric's preoccupation with his thoughts and his lack of concentration on his driving, coupled with very slow reflexes due to little sleep and an over abundance of alcohol in his system, allotted him very little leeway for a mistake on the wet mountain road. At this point he had no leeway at all. When he suddenly found himself at the bend of a hairpin curve, he was totally unprepared to execute a turn before colliding with the barriers. He hit them head on, and the car jumped the metal guardrail, which separated the highway from a steep embankment. The Camaro flipped end over end, slid down the slope sideways for several feet before overturning two more times, then came to an abrupt halt when it slammed against a pine tree, one of the numerous giants growing up and down the hillside below the highway. Eric's head smashed the windshield; however, his failure to use his seatbelt had already resulted in a broken back and neck from the initial flip of the car. He was dead long before the blue Camaro met with the trunk of the pine.  
  
---  
  
It was the bold metallic blue of the car which first attracted the unusual light which, if one was actually to take notice of it, would appear to be no more than the movement of a soft shaft of light being bounced from some prismatic source. Since the sunrise was creating a varietal collage of rainbows from the remnants of the night's storm, there was really nothing one could have noticed out of the ordinary; therefore, the light moved about easily free of detection. As the light came closer to scrutinize the odd placement of color, which up until now had been predominately browns and greens, it realized that this particular piece of landscape was not natural landscape at all. While a portion of it scanned as organic matter, for the most part, it scanned as a mass of metals, synthetic polymers, and a very primitive mixture of hydrocarbons. It appeared to be a structure of some type, although quite damaged, and from the presence of the hydrocarbons, it was quite possibly—or had been—some form of transportation.

The organic matter within the structure was also much damaged, and a closer scan told the light it had definitely been a life-form—the predominant intelligent life-form of the planet. Unfortunately, it was dead. The deterioration process had already set in. Well, this was not exactly the choice the light being would have made had it had a preference, but the alternatives in a case such as this one were not abundant and not to be squandered. Assimilation had to be completed quickly so that adaptation could begin. With only second-hand information to go by—information that had been taken from data reports of fifteen Earth years ago—adjustment was definitely going to be difficult for a while. But then research of other cultures had been his area of specialization for a very long time.

Adaptation was a critical part of that field. Therefore, he considered this task a challenge, but by no means a permanent handicap in the completion of his purpose—the reclamation of a somewhat wayward navigator. Those who had sent him preferred the term "wayward" to "renegade" because references to hostility were antiquated in their society. He, on the other hand, was reserving judgment. More facts were needed before he would endeavor to draw his own conclusion.

CHAPTER 2

_The Council of Elders was an awesome assemblage of knowledge, revered by all, and an inspiration to any fortunate enough to be in attendance at such a gathering of these minds. For one, however, it was not the usual honor—not today. This gathering had been called for a special purpose. It had been granted a special docket, aside from the normal schedule, and it had also been declared a closed session. For the one whose request had triggered this assembly, it was a very anxious time. His request had been denied by members of the Lower Echelon, and the Council had already declined to deliberate the matter twice. However, he had continued his appeal to the point that the Council had finally found it impossible to push the issue aside and still retain its undisputed reputation of impeccable ethics._

_He knew very well that they had been hoping that the matter would be rethought and forgotten, but in this case they were—as shocking as the concept was—very wrong. He also knew that they regarded his insistence as the allowance of emotional reasoning to outweigh rational thought. They believed that he had become much too involved with the resident life-forms during a certain planetary expedition of recent history, and, thus, simply had not been the same logical being since his return home. He had had no luck being able to explain the beneficial ramifications of the changes be had experienced to their satisfaction and, as a result, had found himself feeling quite frustrated time and again._

_Feelings. They had been the hardest things to contend with since his return. He felt. Even though he no longer dwelled within the host he had created for himself during the rather ill-fated expedition, in many ways he could still feel many of the emotions that the host had allowed him to experience. Now there was yet another enigma to add to his dilemma. He felt the need of another—a very desperate need. And since he had found that there was no possible way to ignore the strange emotional transmissions, to him there was only one logical way of dealing with the problem: face-to-face._

_The Council Spokesman called for him to approach the assembly. "Uncomfortable" was one of the feelings he had yet to experience from a personal standpoint; however, he did understand the concept from the observations he had made during his last expedition. He concluded that his present position before the Council could be classified as an appropriate situation for that emotional response._

_The analysis was momentary, and he immediately returned his mind to the proper direction—the Council—as they were now addressing him._

_"This body is unable to comprehend the logic on which you have based your request," the Spokesman related to him. "This absolute necessity which you speak of does not fall within the parameters of our directives of basic exploration to acquire knowledge of other cultures."_

_"It is true that my request holds no bearings on our scientific development of galactic exploration. However, circumstances have arisen that present me with a situation that I believe I must deal with in a manner somewhat contrary to that initial directive," he returned, carefully choosing the terms for his argument. "I also contend that the matter does not entail any trivialities, some of which have been alluded to by a few of my own illustrious colleagues of my last expedition." He was trying very hard to be the diplomat he had been trained so meticulously to be. Just the same, he almost allowed what would have been a most regrettable slip by replacing the term "unenlightened" for "illustrious." It was his hope that he had been able to shield the decline of decorum successfully. However, he need not have worried, for the Spokesman did not seem to be paying very much attention to anything except his own oration._

_"Our laws are quite specific," the Spokesman droned on. "When an expedition's preliminary encounter has been designated as hostile, further contacts shall be handled with prejudice, and if the environment continues to demonstrate enmity, then that region shall be declared off-limits to explorers for a span of time of no less than 30 solar passes of the Xanbarr Nebula, in the hope that its beings will progress into a more peaceful species._

_If patience was a part of his being, he would have been reaching the end of his by now. He had no desire to hear another recitation of the rules of exploration. What he did want to hear was something more in the direction of his request—like an answer; something besides the announcement that Earth was forbidden to them for over a thousand of its years. That he could not accept. However, what he received instead at this point was a question for him to answer._

_"What purpose will your return actually serve, other than to evoke more of the animosity you have already encountered there?"_

_"I am needed," he answered simply. He had no further explanation—none which would be understood. And as far as he was concerned, no other explanation was required. He had given more than enough reason for the request he had made._

_"Is your objectivity truly sound in this matter?" the Spokesman asked prudently._

_"I am needed," he repeated more pointedly. Deliberation commenced among the Council again, this time more fervently._

_The discussion lulled to silence again, but finally the Spokesman once more addressed him. "We have taken your request under the strictest of considerations. Many factors are involved that have made your case unique and difficult to adjudicate fairly. Let us say that you have been among the most accomplished navigators of your generation. Your charts of the outer boundaries are intricately detailed and will serve future voyagers for millennia to come. However, other factors must be considered here. A decision has been reached unanimously by all members of this Council. Your petition is denied. All appeals are hereby revoked, and you will be reassigned to a new exploration sector immediately."_

_It was final now. The judgment had been officially proclaimed. His request had been refused, and such a decision, handed down from the Council, was irrevocable. No other official body superseded the Council of Elders. A return had been denied—forbidden. Therefore, no other choice remained for him—except his own._  
  
---  
  
"Dad?" Scott called quietly, not wanting to startle his father awake. The man seemed to be ill at ease as it was with his dreams. The teenager did not want to make matters worse. He sat on the bed beside him and put a hand lightly on his father's shoulder. "Dad?"

Despite Scott's efforts to the contrary, however, Paul snapped awake at the sound of his son's voice and raised himself up on his arm. "What? Something wrong?" he asked, trying to reorient himself to reality. His heart was pounding in his ears.

"Wrong?" Scott asked rather incredulously. He reached up and wiped perspiration from his father's temple with the back of his hand. "You tell me. You're the one having the nightmares." The boy frowned as he thought. "You know, you've been having a lot of them lately."

"Just one of those things," Paul returned, taking a few deep breaths to settle himself and return his system to the calmer state it was used to maintaining. "No big deal."

Scott got up and turned around to sit back on his own bed. "You sure?" He shrugged. "I mean, we haven't seen Fox around for a couple of months now."

"We've been lucky," Paul said quietly, his voice now as even as it normally was. Scott always found the tone difficult to object to, except when he was angry about something. Then it was a bit annoying. It seemed he could never maintain his anger when his dad insisted on returning him words in such a calm manner. The fact had a strong tendency to take the "fight" out of him almost every time.

"Maybe," Scott countered lightly, "but we are holed up in kind of a backwater town here."

Paul arched his left eyebrow, the gesture Scott had learned to recognize as an indication that his father did not understand or was not sure of the intended meaning of something. Idioms were an easy way of expressing things, but they could not, of course, be taken literally, and Paul still did at times. It was often a source of amusement to Scott, who, like most everyone else, took that aspect of the language for granted. He rephrased his remark.

"We're staying in a real out-of-the-way place here. Two giant steps and you're in the middle of a forest of the tallest trees in the world. Nice place to get yourself lost in—whether you're trying to or not."

Paul smiled as he sat up. He usually recognized it when his son joked with him now. "A beautiful place, too. And more comfortable than the desert any day, don't you think?"

Scott nodded, also smiling. He was being gently sidetracked from the initial conversation. "Right." He met his dad's eyes for a moment. As usual, he saw only the innocence in them that he always saw. And it was never a front. His dad didn't know how to deceive, and what Scott had come to know about him, the man had no desire to learn, much less to practice, the art. It was not often the boy understood the way his father looked at things, but he seldom ended up being embarrassed by them—at least not as much as he had at first. Actually, he usually felt rather proud of him, and he wondered if that was very normal for a teenager his age. Then he thought. When it came right down to it, he wasn't a normal anything. Sometimes that did bother him, but there just wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He shook his head and got up.

"I better get going, or I'll be late for school."

"Do you think you will do all right on your science test today?" Paul asked, reaching for his jeans at the foot of his bed.

Scott was already changing his shirt. "Are you kidding?" He cocked a look back to his father. "An essay test on the moons of our solar system." He smiled a bit mischievously. "No sweat. I've got an inside track, remember?"

Paul's expression changed almost into a question, but with a bit of worry at the fringes.

Scott had to laugh. "Hey, Dad, I was only kidding," he reassured him. "I've been studying all week for the test."

Paul looked noticeably relieved by the answer, and Scott finished dressing, letting the explanation end there. It was true. He had studied. However, the real understanding of scientific concepts seemed to come naturally. He realized everyone had his own thing that he was good at doing, but Scott's own understanding did not stop with science, and he wondered if his parentage didn't have just a little something to do with that.

The teenager picked up his books and was almost to the door of their apartment when he stopped short, did an about-face, and walked to the closet where he had thrown the jeans he had worn the day before. He reached into the pocket and retrieved the silver sphere, which he transferred into the front pocket of the jeans he was wearing. The way things were he had learned a long time ago to keep the object with him, no matter what. Too many times, he and his dad had had to leave behind everything they had—including Paul's camera equipment—in order to elude the predators that tracked them. Everything was expendable except for their wallets and the spheres. Paul's wallet held the driver's license and other identification of the original Paul Forrester, which would be difficult to replace because of the many eyes and ears of the FSA, and Scott's wallet carried the only picture he had of Jenny Hayden, his mother. The spheres were irreplaceable from any standpoint.

Sometimes Scott found himself wondering, that of all the things that had come and gone in his life, how he had actually managed to hold onto the small silver object. It was true that it had held a special importance to him because his mother had given it to him, but then she had given him other things as well. However, it was the only thing he still had in his possession, other than her picture. The really unusual part of it was that up until about a year ago, all it had been to him was a little silver ball. He'd had absolutely no idea of what it actually was and definitely no idea of what was capable of being done with it. The fact that it had saved his life in a car accident when only a miracle could have done so otherwise and that it had brought his father to him, were only pinpoints of its potential. Unlike his father, he could not control its power properly yet, but he would learn in time. Sometimes that scared him a little, but he figured he would get over that sooner or later. After all, he had already gotten used to some pretty drastic changes in his life—and lifestyle, as well.

He slipped his backpack of books over his shoulder, then turned and looked back at his father as he tugged on the door to open it. "Bye, Dad. I'll see you tonight."

Paul smiled back at his son. "Good-bye, Scott. I hope you have a good day," he told him evenly in his usual quiet tone.

Scott pulled the door closed after him and hurried out of the building and down the steps to catch his bus. He had to grin as another thought crossed his mind. Most kids his age, it seemed, were always complaining about getting yelled at all the time at home. Who was it who did the yelling in his family? He did; therefore, he didn't have much of a reason to complain with the others on that subject. It was true that Paul had sometimes become firm with him. But yell? Hardly. Even his reprimands where delivered in calm tones. His voice seldom rose above normal and only then when there was some kind of danger involved.

Yell? No. That took anger, and that was just something his dad had not gotten the hang of yet—not a true emotional outburst-type of anger. Paul could copy it from someone if it was absolutely necessary, but actually to experience it and turn around and display that feeling? No...that was really reaching. It had not happened yet, anyway. And if his father could not work up a true angry response to Fox's obsession with them, not even after the actual physical force he continued to use against them, Scott could not picture Paul going into a rage over anything else. On the other hand, even thoughts of George Fox set Scott's emotions into a tailspin.

Altering his train of thought, the teenager shoved his hands into his pockets, and the fingertips of his right hand touched the sphere. Maybe "irreplaceable" was understating its importance. After all, the materials that composed the two spheres they had and the knowledge that had created them was not from this world, but from a world light years away from Earth's own solar system. The beings there were the only ones of their kind—unique—just like his dad was, after the physical and emotional changes that had taken place. Then Scott's smile broadened, "well, more or less unique, anyway," he said to himself, thinking that he was not exactly "the kid next door" himself—not all of him, anyway.

The bus came to a stop at his corner, and he got on it.  
  
---  
  
The visitor of light, who by now was well accustomed to the structural mobility of the physical host of the late Eric McKinnon, stopped his car at the crossroads of Highways 99 and 198, just at the edge of the town of Goshen, California. It would not be long before he arrived in the city of Fresno. The energy matrix had directed him to this part of the country, and this state in particular. The direction was a logical one. The abundance of large metropolitan districts in the area would certainly provide an excellent opportunity for anonymity.

Fresno was his first stop for two reasons. The first was that a job awaited him there which would give him an excellent base of operations to continue his search. Second, and more to the point, the energy matrix had yielded an exceptionally high and stable reading in this area over the past few weeks. That was a notable sign indeed. His assimilation into the culture had come along quite well, he thought, and he would be able to gain the cooperation he needed without the hindrance of being considered overly strange or out of place. Of course, his quarry had the advantage of a longer adjustment period, which would hamper his search in its own way. The energy trace was still his best chance. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver sphere. As it rested in the palm of his hand, he concentrated carefully, and the sphere began to glow a bright blue hue.

"Well, well, here's something worth a look, I believe," Eric thought to himself. He glanced at the road leading to the northeast, then picked up the topographical and road maps that lay next to him and glanced at both, comparing. "Lemon Cove, Three Rivers, Mason Corners, Giant Trees, Mineral King," he read first from the road map and then surveyed the same area on the topographical rendering. "A small lake, an area with a heavy accumulation of vegetation, and mountainous terrain, including several high peaks. Sparsely populated area." He looked back up at the road, then ran another matrix scan. "Quite an illogical choice. Peculiar, to say the very least."

Eric had to think about the aspects of the new set of circumstances. What he had found most obvious about the various gathered populaces that he had encountered since his arrival, was that the smaller the population of a town—or city, as it were—the harder it was to be inconspicuous. The area now in question consisted of a scattered collection of small towns. Why would his quarry seek refuge there? Eric's forehead furrowed as he considered things carefully. Maybe the initial reports had been exaggerated. He shook his head. No, the entire expedition had reported the same type of circumstances.

The planet was quite hostile toward outsiders. And as Eric had learned during the last seven months since his arrival, the beings on the planet were hostile even toward one another, and the degree of that hostility appeared to grow proportionately to the origin of the outsider—race, religion, nationality, former residency, and the list went on and on. The more unique the origin of the person to those around him, the more aloof and hostile the inhabitants became. At least that was the conclusion he had drawn from those he had already encountered, and it had been most difficult at first to become accustomed to the extremes of delineation that existed in the one species.

Eric took a deep breath, then put his car back into gear. There was one thing for sure. The matrix would not lie. It couldn't. Forsaking his intended route, he took the northeast road toward Mason Corners, the first town listed on the map in that direction. Maybe luck was pulling things in his direction now. Or was that "fate?" He kept getting the two mixed up. Abstracts were still difficult to conceptualize, although he truly believed he was doing rather well in this rather bizarre culture. Why the explorer had been so determined to return to this place—and then actually accomplished the return in the way that he had—was quite beyond his own comprehension. For whatever it was worth, the one now known as Eric McKinnon felt he would soon see for himself.

His main hope still remained: that the one he sought would not cause him more trouble than he had already caused those from their home world. Eric had been issued an alternative directive by those who had sent him, but it was only to be used as a last resort. When he had first arrived, that directive was persistently difficult to incorporate into his thinking because of the teachings that had existed on his world for millennia; but this host he had taken for his stay here held emotional responses that had a tendency to alter his thinking patterns. It had been most disconcerting at first, but the longer he remained in the host, the more easily he became accustomed to them and accepted the responses. It made him very curious about the current status of the recalcitrant explorer.

He also thought about the child. The latter offered definite possibilities that he was beginning to consider as being a more lucrative alternative to his attempts to locate the explorer directly through the power matrix. The incredibly ancient energies utilized by this world had posed problems he had not expected. He had anticipated a certain amount of interference, but it had turned out to be most annoying, especially at first. Little by little, he would work it out for a more precise reading. Until then, his theory about locating his quarry through the child seemed to be his most logical course of action, and with McKinnon's credentials, he believed he could devise a plan that would place him within close proximity of the area's children and thus continue his search. By locating the explorer's offspring, he would surely locate the explorer himself.

CHAPTER 3

Scott was on an emotional high, and with the downs he and his dad had been having the past several months just trying to stay beyond Fox's reach, it felt pretty good. No, it felt great! He had aced the science test Thursday, despite some last minute misgivings. His self-confidence was definitely a point he needed to work on, but then that was part of being a teenager—he hoped. After all, he was strange enough, as normality was defined. But right now, that didn't matter. He felt too good to let circumstances he could not change get him down. Saturday had been a lazy day, and Scott had slept in while his dad had run some errands and gone to pick up another assignment from his editor at the Mason Corners Register. However, today he was more than ready to get things started.

The assignment Paul received was to obtain pictures for another of the Register's typically exhilarating articles. There had been a new rush of complaints of vandals in the Sequoia Park area, and the editor wanted a few camera shots of some of the reported damage. Normally, it would have been just another tedious task, but the 602 square miles of forestland of giant redwoods was, to Scott's way of thinking, one of the loveliest areas on the planet—to use his dad's frame of reference. The assignment meant a hike through a portion of that acreage, and he was all for it. Walking bothered neither him nor Paul much anymore, especially when it could be done at a normal pace. That Sunday morning he had gotten up even earlier than his dad, and had their lunch and the camera equipment packed before Paul was out of the shower.

Paul was a little amused by his son's enthusiasm. Scott had energy, but it seemed more abundant this morning for some reason. "The way you're rushing around here, I'd almost think Fox was on his way over."

"Hey, Dad, don't even kid around about that," returned Scott, seeing the sparkle in his father's eyes which told him he was not being serious. "In fact, don't even mention him—not today. It's too gorgeous a day outside to spoil it on that guy."

Paul smiled. He understood the request and would make it a point to honor it. "You're really looking forward to going on this assignment that Mr. Benton gave me, aren't you?"

"You bet!" Scott returned, zipping up the camera case. "Clear day, cool, clean air, beautiful scenery, nice smells." He took a deep breath to emphasize the words. For some reason, it seemed like he had been cooped up in the apartment forever. He pointed to the couch. "Get your jacket, and let's get going."

Paul laughed this time, grabbed for his jacket from the arm of the sofa, and picked up the camera case. "I'm your shadow. Let's go," he said, mimicking his son's tone of excitement for getting things started.

Scott already had on his sweater and picked up and shouldered his backpack which had their lunch in it today rather than his books. Within five minutes, they were in their pickup and on the road to the park. They had rolled down their windows to be able to enjoy the cool morning air, and Scott rested his arm on the window frame. The national park was not that far of a drive, and it was not very long before the smell of the giant redwoods wafted through the cab.

Paul drew in a long, deep breath, then turned to Scott. "You're right. This place does have nice smells." He took in another, and his expression changed to one of deeper thought, almost distant.

Scott, who had turned at his father's statement, noticed a little sadness enter the man's eyes. "Something wrong?"

Paul snapped out of his reverie. "What?"

"The way you were looking just then. I thought something might be wrong."

Paul shrugged. "Oh, I was just thinking about...things."

"Things." Scott repeated, wondering whether he should prod or not. When his dad didn't understand something, he usually asked. Shyness was not one of Paul's characteristics. "What kind of things?" he ventured when only silence followed. "The park? Your assignment?"

Paul looked over to the teenager and spoke before Scott had an opportunity to try anymore of his process of elimination tactics. "Home," he told him. "I was thinking of home." He turned his eyes back to the road ahead. "We have beautiful things like this at home, but not beautiful...like this." He looked back at Scott briefly to see if he understood what he was trying to get across.

Scott nodded after a moment. "I think I know what you're saying. A different kind of beauty."

It was close enough. Paul oftentimes had trouble relating how he felt about some things. He was still trying to get used to the myriad of emotions he had contracted quite naturally through the host which he had cloned to be able to survive here. But then, to him, emotions were the most exciting part of his learning. He tried to explain a little better. "At home we don't have the tactile senses to enjoy such things. We accept things for what they are and the purpose they serve within the spectrum of life. Things are beautiful simply because they live and exist."

"It's a nice idea, I guess," Scott returned, thinking about what it might be like to look at things from what sounded like a rather singular point of view to him. Then he smiled. "But I think I still like the different ways we can judge beauty here. And each in his own way."

Paul threw another glance in his son's direction. "At home, our way is a little bit more of an abstract point of view than it is actual aesthetics, and I think that we allowed some things to be sacrificed along the way for the sake of progress. We have total peace—and have had for thousands of years—but the ability to truly enjoy that peace has almost disappeared. I used to wonder why we always spent so much time away on expeditions to gain more and more knowledge by studying other cultures. Now, I know that in doing so, we were really trying to get back something that we lost over time—the heart of our own civilization." The sadness seemed to dissipate for the time being, and he smiled again. "I like your way of looking at beauty better, too."

"Our way," Scott corrected. "You're just as much a part of this planet now as anyone else is—to me anyway."

Paul looked at Scott, more intently after the boy's last statement. The teenager was not one to throw compliments around at every turn. When he did voice one, Paul could be sure it was well meant and not contrived. But Scott's statement was actually more than a compliment—much more to Paul. It was a tone of acceptance, and it was also one of those times when Scott looked and sounded so much like his mother.

"Yes," Paul said, acknowledging more than the compliment. He had just declared to his son the truth of something he had only admitted recently to himself when he had been able to be with and talk to Jenny Hayden again. He may have begun as a visitor on a mission of aid, but now...now, he was here to stay.

They both returned to the scenic view around them, and it was not long until Paul pulled the truck up to the park entrance. They were directed to a visitor's center farther in, where another ranger was stationed. Paul went inside a few minutes to see if the ranger could give him a more precise location of the vandalized areas than the one his editor had given him. Like Scott, Paul did not mind a good walk, but 600 square miles would be pushing the issue a bit. The ranger was helpful, pointed out specific spots on his wall map, then gave Paul a map he could take with him so that he would not be as likely to get lost. But he assured Paul that other ranger stations were scattered throughout the park, and regular patrols were conducted. The main thing was to try to stay on the main trails, or as close to them as possible.

"We'll probably leave the truck up the road a few miles, near that first area you marked for me, and walk from there," Paul told him.

"So you're not alone, then," the ranger said, looking out his window and more closely at the truck. "That's good." He finally got a good look at Scott, who had leaned back in his seat and was out of the shadows, which made it easier for him to be seen from inside the cabin office. He looked back at Paul. "Your paper showed good sense sending you a helper on this little assignment. Hiking alone, especially when you're not familiar with the area, isn't too great an idea."

Paul followed the man's eyes to the truck and figured out the reference. "Scott's not from the paper; he's my son," he told him congenially, then added a word of explanation because so often it seemed required etiquette. "We haven't had a lot of time to be together the last few weeks."

"Weeks," the ranger repeated with a short laugh. "If that's all it's been, Mr. Forrester, I'd say you have a pretty good track record. Most people I talk to can't even brag 'months.' It's usually runs into the 'years' category."

Paul wasn't quite sure he understood exactly what the ranger was trying to say, but he had the general idea. Too, the man was smiling, so that was a good sign. He smiled back. He would ask Scott later what the "track record" was supposed to mean in this kind of context. He shook the ranger's hand as he left and thanked him for all his help. The ranger followed him to the door and waved to Scott as they got ready to leave. Within a couple of minutes, Paul and Scott were finally on their way again, and by the time Paul stopped the truck in one of the small roadside alcoves, the morning shadows were just beginning to shorten as the sun took its first prominent climb above the tops of the mountains.

After a couple of hours of walking, Scott and Paul took a breather. Scott sat down atop a rock jutting up from the forest floor. He reached into his backpack, which he had set down beside him, and pulled out one of the canteens. He took a long drink, then looked around to see where his dad was. Paul was standing within a circle of six sequoias and a sugar pine and looking up. The teenager walked over to where he stood. In his eyes, Scott could see a mixture of awe, wonder, and respect. He held out the canteen to him.

"Want a drink, Dad?"

"How do these trees make you feel, Scott?" Paul asked him, still looking up and around them.

"Make me feel?" asked Scott, taken off guard by the question. He shrugged as he also scanned the life around them, then he smiled. "Pretty small," he answered.

Paul looked over to him. "In a way, it's like being among the stars." He gave his son a gentle smile. "You feel very small up there, too. Small among the giants. A small moment in time, compared to the eons of creation." He motioned with his hand. "As far as life is here, these are the ancients of time."

"You can say that again," Scott said. "I read some about them at the library right after we came here. One of the oldest and the largest redwoods they call General Sherman. It's over 270 feet high and something like thirty, thirty-five feet across at the base." He gave a little laugh. "They say there's so much wood in that one tree, that you could make about forty houses out of it."

Paul's expression became suddenly serious. "They wouldn't really do that, would they?"

Scott laughed again, shaking his head. "No, Dad. They only say that in the books so that you have an idea of how big it is. This place is protected by the government. In fact, it was the first forest to get that kind of protection. It became a national preserve in 1890. You know, these trees have been here almost 4,000 years. They were here when the Pharaohs were building the pyramids in Egypt."

"Maybe even a little longer," Paul added, and Scott tried to gauge the depth of meaning from the man's eyes. Then Paul's smile broadened, and he winked at his son as he took the canteen for a drink. Handing it back, he returned with Scott to the rock to rest.

"How much longer until we get to the place where you're supposed to take those pictures?" Scott asked.

"Impatient so soon?" Paul teased lightly.

Scott shook his head. "No, just wondering." He took off his sweater and pushed it into the backpack, along with the canteen. The temperature was rising nicely now. His dad still had his jacket on. It occurred to Scott that his father did not seem to give a lot of attention to temperature fluctuations—at least, not that he talked about. He had a guess that the man had so many other things going on in his mind just to keep relatively even with everyone else, that being hot or cold was a minor, secondary concern.

Around 10:30, they found the first spot that the ranger had marked for Paul on his map. There was some childish graffiti across several rocks and boulders, and two young trees—a fir and a sequoia—had been damaged by shovels, where it appeared that someone had tried to dig them up. Many of the roots were exposed and had also been cut by the shovels.

Paul grimaced at first glance. He was not sure how to react. The damage was not severe, but it was damage all the same. "Why would someone do this?"

For most anyone else, the question would have been a rhetorical one, but Paul simply did not have the frames of reference that other people had gathered throughout their lives. The question, therefore, was not meant for a psychological-type answer, but for a physical reason. Scott understood the difference by now, and knew he needed to try to answer.

"It's hard to say, Dad. The paint could be from some kids out to put their name on something someone's going to see. The trees..." He shrugged. "I don't know. It could have been a couple of souvenir hunters who wanted a souvenir they didn't want to pay for." He shook his head. "Even if it's just a prank, it's pretty risky business. Like I was telling you before, these things are protected by federal law. The penalties are pretty stiff." He looked at the trees again, then sighed. "You and I should be protected that well from our own predators."

Paul was retrieving his camera from its bag, but Scott's last statement made him turn around to him. The empathy he gave his son through his eyes was genuine. There was absolutely no way that he could give words adequate enough to say how much he wanted it to be different for his son—and for Jenny. He removed the lens cap from the camera and pulled it up to focus it on his first subject.  
  
---  
  
It was around 9:30 that evening when Paul finished clearing the kitchen table. Looking around the corner, he saw Scott had not quite made it into the bathroom for his shower. He was sound asleep on the couch. The day had proven more of a physical drain than Paul had anticipated. He knew he had to get his son to bed now, or tomorrow would be a very long Monday for him. He walked over and nudged the teenager gently.

"Scott?"

"Um?" the boy stirred.

"Scott," Paul tried a little louder and brushed his hand gently across the boy's ear.

Scott opened his eyes—barely. "Time to get up already?" he asked a little hoarsely.

"Time to go to bed," Paul returned.

"Oh." One glance through the window told Scott it was still night time. "Yeah." He tried to get up, but not too enthusiastically, and his dad helped with a hand under his shoulder.

"Come on, you can shower in the morning. Bed's the best place for you, I think."

Scott nodded his wholehearted agreement, then staggered into the bedroom. He did not remember getting into bed because he had not really woken up, but Paul made sure he made it, took off his tennis shoes and jeans, and pulled the covers over him. Paul straightened and sighed. An old memory flashed through his mind. He remembered the way Jenny had looked when she slept. Right now, it was like he was looking at her again. In a way, it made him feel sadness, but from another view, it made him happy to see so much of Jenny in her son. "Their" son, he revised mentally, then smiled. Perhaps things were not exactly as he wished them to be, but he had Scott with him, and for now, until they could find Jenny again, that was enough.

CHAPTER 4

There was a rumor going around Mason Corners High on Monday that the athletic department had a new assistant coach for its basketball and track season. Since PE was Scott's last class of the day this semester, he heard bits and pieces about the man all day and had listened more than he might have to other things because this change would be affecting him personally. Scott had chosen basketball over track this time. His running had gotten him too much attention in the past. Basketball, on the other hand, afforded him more of a chance to blend in with the other students because he was still learning the ins and outs of the game. He had the height, the agility, and the speed that a coach might tend to pay attention to, but what he obviously still had to learn about the game made him less likely to attract undue attention.

However, as it turned out, Scott was not as successful in that endeavor as he had hoped. The coach had seen some promise in the new student, and his team needed what the teenager looked like he could offer. He had made numerous attempts to talk Scott into trying out for the team, but so far, he had not pressed the issue, seeing that Scott had definite objections to the idea. Of course, Scott's objections were not against the team or the game. Under other circumstances, he would have jumped at the chance to be a part of the squad. But, as experience had taught him rather painfully, he could not make that kind of commitment. It was not fair to anyone concerned, especially the members of the team. He never had any idea when he and his dad would be forced to pack up and leave again. However, Scott was not one to give something a half try, and, team or not, he usually played his best anytime he was on the court. Today's scrimmage was no exception.

When one of the guards executed a successful pass to Scott, he pulled off a hook shot into the net. In the next play, Scott picked up a rebound and set it through the hoop with a jump shot. He intercepted a second pass before he realized he had someone's attention. The new assistant coach was studying him rather closely. Maybe it was paranoia, but Scott slowed his pace by two-thirds for the remainder of the game, letting the others in his group grab for whatever they could without any of his own maneuvers. Until the end of the game, he sufficed himself with guarding his opponents and scoring a couple of times when there was just no place else to throw the ball except into the net or to the opposing team. After practice, he was a bit winded, but still had some energy left he knew he would have to work off later. Maybe he could talk his dad into something after dinner that night. He did not have a lot of homework to speak of to hinder the possibility.

Walking to the showers, he was stopped by the coach, Donald Granger, who pulled him aside. The other boys continued past.

"You were raking them in out there, Hayden, what happened?"

Scott looked from him to the blond man beside him, then back to his coach. He shrugged a little. "Just ran out of steam, I guess."

"Looked to me like you could have kept it up, Scott," the new man offered. He had made it a point to learn most of the boy's names already.

Scott tried to sidestep the issue with something as plausible as possible. "I was out hiking yesterday, and didn't get home until late. It did me in; that's all."

"Hiking'll do it, all right, if you're not used to it." Granger said.

"Yes, sir," Scott returned, letting the facts fall the way the men wanted. "Anything else, Coach?"

"Only that Coach McKinnon here would like to take you and a few of the other boys from your group and work with you to put together a good scrimmage team for our A Squad."

"Sounds like a good idea, but..." Scott started to hedge.

"We're pulling out the best of your group, Scott. It'll be a good opportunity to learn some of the finer points of the game."

Scott shook his head. "I appreciate that, Coach. It's just that I don't think I should..."

"I know you don't feel like you can make commitments because of your dad's job and all," Granger said, "but this isn't the same thing as going out for the school team."

"I'd really like to see how you play under the pressure of a real game. I think you'd surprise even yourself," McKinnon told him.

Scott was still hesitant. He just did not want to get that involved right now. There was too much else on his mind.

"What can it hurt, Scott?" Granger asked. "Don't you think it's at least worth a try on your part?"

They were not going to let him say no. Scott saw that. "OK," he told them, "I'll think on it."

"Good," McKinnon said. "I look forward to working with you and the others."

Scott nodded, then headed for the showers. The two men let him go this time, and he hurried to be able to catch the 4:20 bus. The next bus did not come by until 5:30, and, even though their apartment was closer than in other places where he had had to walk, it was a luxury he took advantage of when he could.

He was through with his shower and almost dressed when Daniel, one of his better friends at the school, sat down beside him as he put on his tennis shoes.

"What's up?"

"Oh, it was nothing much. Coach asked me about being on some scrimmage team they're getting together."

"Oh, that. I didn't mean your talk with the coach. Gosh, they've been talking about that scrimmage team ever since Coach Granger found out he could hire an assistant. About time he finally asked you." He shook his head when Scott glanced up at him. "Come on, Scott. We all figured you'd be picked out for that team. Still don't understand why you didn't try out for the squad. You're crazy, you know. It's the best way there is to get ahead with the girls around here."

Daniel was a talker and a half. Most of the time, all Scott had to do was listen. He tied his other shoe. "If you knew," he started, but Daniel picked it up again.

"I knew about the scrimmage team, yeah. But, like I said, that wasn't what I was asking you about."

Scott turned to his friend as he reached down under the bench for his backpack. "OK, what were you asking about? Or is this going to be one of your twenty questions?" He managed a half smile for his friend so that the words would not appear as caustic as his tone intimated and added, "I've got a bus to catch. Remember?"

"I'm talking about you, Mister," Daniel returned pointedly. "Ever since I saw you come in here, you've looked like the world was going to come apart at the edges any second, and you were the one expected to hold it together."

Because he did not want the long walk home, Scott had not been paying attention to anything other than getting to his bus. To hear that something was bothering him enough to catch someone else's attention made him stop for a moment to evaluate. There was something there all right, he realized, but he could not pinpoint it at the moment. He shrugged, trying to think up something to tell Daniel. "Maybe I was just thinking about that test Ms. Cramer told us we were going to have Thursday."

"Oh, yeah," Daniel said with a sigh. "You had to remind me, didn't you? I'm a few chapters behind myself," he said, assuming his friend's predicament to be the same as his own.

Scott did not tell him otherwise. He stood up and headed for the door. "Got to get to my bus, Daniel. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," Daniel waved. "See you in English."

Scott waved back as he went out the door. Already his mind was trying to single out what it was that was bothering him because now that it had been brought to his attention, he realized there was definitely a problem, and it was not the social studies test.

The teenager was still trying to distinguish the details of the foggy picture that would uncover the cause of his disconcerting feelings when Paul came home. The man found his son sitting in the living room rocker, his history book in his lap, but his mind obviously a thousand miles away.

"Hi, Scott," Paul offered, and Scott looked up.

"Hi," he closed his book and set it down on the coffee table as he got up. "How was your day? Mr. Benton like the pictures?"

Paul smiled. "Yes, he did." As he walked toward him, he looked closer at Scott—or rather, more deeply. "Everything go OK at school today?" he asked.

"Fine," Scott answered, and turned toward the kitchen. "I brought some chicken home. It's in the oven. I kind of figured we'd both be too tired to cook tonight. That OK with you?"

"Fine," Paul repeated in almost the same tone as his son had answered him. It was not to be facetious, but he was preoccupied with Scott's obvious preoccupation. He went over to the kitchen table where Scott had already set places for them. The teenager took the chicken out of the oven and brought it over to the table where he set it down. While Paul put it out on the plates, Scott went to the refrigerator to retrieve the salad he had made and brought that back, and then some milk. Finally, he sat down himself, and they ate, although without much conversation.

After dinner, Paul washed the dishes as Scott dried and put them away. There were not many, so it didn't take very long.

"You sure there's nothing you want to talk about?" Paul asked his son as he dried his hands and then stretched the towel out over the edge of the sink.

Scott turned around, his face showing only innocence. "Nothing. It was just a long Monday; that's all. You know how Mondays can be."

His dad's expression related otherwise as he followed him out of the kitchen. Then Paul's look turned thoughtful. "You know, at work, I'm always hearing things said about Monday. If something goes wrong or something doesn't work, they blame it on the fact that it's Monday. Even if something happens on another day during the week, they say 'oh no, another Monday.' I don't understand how one day of the week can be said to bring bad luck when it has the same number of hours as any other day." His eyebrow arched as he thought of something else. "Then there's Friday, when everyone seems to be unusually happy—no matter what happens."

All Scott could do was stare at his father. Boy, had he opened a can of worms! There was absolutely no way to explain the issue in twenty-five words or less—not even in 500. Not to his dad's satisfaction anyway. He waved it off. "I'll try to explain it some other time, OK? It gets a little complicated, and I have to finish some reading." He remembered that earlier he had wanted to take a walk after supper, but right now, whatever had been nagging at him since that afternoon was taking a higher priority. He felt he needed to settle the emotional incongruity.

"Sure," Paul returned. "If I can help," he offered, actually referring to more than his son's homework.

"I'll let you know," Scott answered with a smile he hoped would satisfy his dad, and then went back to the rocker and his book.

Paul definitely knew that everything was not fine, but he also knew he should not press when Scott had his mind set on keeping something hidden. He did hope that his son would tell him when he was ready.  
  
---  
  
Around 2:30 Friday morning, Scott jumped in his sleep, which jerked him awake rather painfully. He sat up, a crick in his neck. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to reorient himself. Looking around the bedroom, he saw the time on the clock on the bedside table and that his dad was still asleep. Scott was glad he had not wakened him. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took some deep breaths. His heart rate returned more to normal, and he began to cool down.

 _Of all the strange dreams!_ he thought. He stretched his neck muscles again, massaging them hard, then lay back on his pillow. Once he began to feel relaxed again, at least for the most part, he tried to recall what he had been dreaming. Considering the reaction he'd had to it, he was not all that enthusiastic about going over it. Then again, he also knew that if he didn't get it out in the open, there was a good chance the nightmare would keep repeating itself the rest of the night. That thrilled him even less. It was bad enough to be plagued by the strange, indistinguishable feelings during the day, but now those feelings were following him into his dreams.

Lights, he remembered lights—a circle of lights, in different hues of blues, violets, and deep reds. It was like looking through a window cut from prisms. He saw lights and colors, but could make out very little detail. He remembered feeling certain impressions—mainly negative, but one that was very determined and persistent. The disembodied impressions had been unsettling, he remembered, because of what he could feel but not see. He fell asleep again before he could pull up anymore of the dream, but soon returned to the state of sleep he had so recently left. However, this time it was into a very different dreamscape.  
  
---  
  
_Scott walked through the redwoods again, but his father was not with him. A noise to his right pulled his attention up to a high area of bush and rocks. A bobcat was staring down at him. He stared back, trying to convey to the animal that he meant it no harm. In a few moments, the cat's ears perked up from their backed position, and she lowered herself to lie on the rock's edge. Her ears flicked as she continued to watch him. Scott took a deep breath of relief._

_"That was very good, Scott, " a voice to his left spoke. Scott recognized the soft tones, which immediately placed him more at ease._

_"Thanks," he told his father as he turned to face him. "I wasn't sure if I could pull it off."_

_"I was," Paul returned, smiling now, a bit of pride showing in his eyes. "You've always had the ability, but the knowledge and confidence to use and control it will have to come with time. Just be patient. "_

_"Patience implies time. Something you no longer have at your disposal, my friend." The words came from a voice Scott did not recognize, and when he spun around to see who it was, there was no one. He could not even tell from which direction the voice had come. No matter where he turned to look, all he saw were trees._

_"Dad?" Scott's tone held a slight tremor of nervousness. Something felt very wrong here, and he wanted to hear some reassurances._

_"It has not been an easy task to find you," the voice continued, "but now that I have, we must leave. We have a long journey ahead of us."_

_Again Scott tried to locate the source of the voice. "Dad, who is it? One of Fox's men? Who?"_

_"I will not leave my son," Scott heard his father say, but when he turned to where Paul had been standing just a moment before, he could no longer see him. It served to increase his uneasiness considerably. If one of the voices had not been his father's, he probably would have left the area in short order because the conversation continued as if he were not there anyway._

_"The choice is no longer yours, my friend," the stranger continued. "It was never yours."_

_"I did what I believed to be the right thing to do," Paul's voice replied. "I still hold to that belief. I will not leave my son. As long as he needs me, I will not leave him."_

_"The judgment was against you. You should not have..."_

_"Who are you?" Scott found himself shouting, cutting off whatever else the stranger had to say. There was only silence. "What is it you want from us!" Scott's voice level did not lower, but it was his father's quiet voice, not the stranger's, that replied._

_"He wants nothing from you, Scott."_

_"It sounds to me like he wants you," Scott returned, still quite agitated. "I'd say that's wanting a lot from me!"_

_"His emotions are strong—somewhat hostile, from the sound of them," the stranger spoke again._

_"He is frightened," Paul answered._

_"He is as all others here. Of course, it is not his fault because it is the only way he has been shown. But you are very different, my friend. This is a hostile place. You do not belong here. "_

_"I will not leave him," Paul repeated his stand._

_"I was chosen as Envoy and placed under the strictest of trusts that I would complete the mission given me. I must honor that trust."_

_"And I honor the responsibility I have to my son."_

_Scott still could not see the stranger nor relocate his father. He elected to stand quietly for a few moments to try to gain a positive directional location of either, but the voices echoed almost eerily. He shivered._

_"You will not submit then to the judgment," the stranger spoke._

_"If I leave, he will be alone," Paul answered._

_"This is your final word?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Then it appears that only one thing stands in the way of the fulfillment of my assignment here."_

_Dead silence followed the stranger's last words. Scott could not even hear the sound of birds in the treetops now. The bobcat had disappeared, and he was beginning to feel very much alone. It was the same loneliness he had felt after the death of his foster parents, the Lockharts—before he had first seen the man who had introduced himself to him as his father. The feeling sent a chill through him. His father was right. He was afraid. Afraid of being alone again. "Dad?" he called, uneasy at the continued silence. It had only been a few moments, but the moments were fast growing into an eternity. "Dad?" he tried again, and reached into his pocket for the sphere. However, the snapping of a twig behind him made him hesitate._

_"Scott," he heard his name in a quiet tone, and he spun around before it struck him that it had not been his father's voice._

_A huge bear, at least two feet taller than Scott, loomed over him, paws outstretched. It bared its teeth and released a growl that echoed against the surrounding trees, but Scott registered nothing but the ice blue coldness of the animal's eyes. What he saw in them paralyzed him, except for his voice. He screamed._  
  
---  
  
Paul had seen his son shed tears of anger, frustration, sadness, and even gladness, but never like this. He had also seen his fear, but this was quite beyond fear; it was terror.

Paul had been awakened by a scream. The moonlight through the blinds of the bedroom window had quickly shown him the source of the cry. Scott was struggling to wake up. He was trembling, his color was drained, and perspiration was soaking through his t-shirt and mixing with the tears washing over his face. Paul immediately left his own bed to sit beside his son. He reached his hand out to touch Scott's cheek then pushed his hand around his neck, just below his left ear, and took a firm hold. The other hand he rested on the boy's right shoulder. Both actions were taken against the reaction he was fully expecting when the teenager finally woke up. The terror he sensed was overwhelming, and Paul was having difficulty containing an adverse reaction of his own. It was not an emotion he'd had enough experience with as yet to know just how to control it. He wished the experience had not been connected with Scott.

The teenager jerked awake for the second time that night, but this time not just his neck—but every muscle in his body—was tensed. Also, this time, the dream sequence did not fully dissipate. The last thing he had been feeling in his dream, he continued to endure. His mind refused to adjust to reality. For the moment, he struggled against the hold on him, then his vision cleared enough so that he could see that there was no longer any animal looming over him. It was his father. He blinked again to make sure it was reality, then tears flooded his eyes again, heavier now, a mixture of relief and the persistent fear and confusion from the dream.

"Dad," he said almost inaudibly, but Paul heard with no problem and knew his son was finally awake, although not entirely oriented. He relaxed his hold against him, and Scott, feeling the release of pressure, immediately sat up and took hold of him around the neck in a very tight embrace. Paul put his arms around the teenager in an even tighter hold. He did not try to say anything. He really did not know what he could say or if he had the voice to do so. Scott was crying and none too quietly. Under such circumstances, Paul had difficulty keeping his own emotions curtailed, and he did not quite understand why his son's pain caused him to hurt so much as well. Nor did he know why it was that he started rocking with him gently back and forth. But whatever the reasons, the latter seemed to help, and he continued the action, and stroked the boy's head and rubbed his hand up and down his back. Scott's hysteria finally subsided, as did his trembling, but he was totally exhausted by the ordeal, making Paul hesitant to question him about what he had dreamed that had caused such drastic consequences. He, therefore, tried the safest questions he could think of that would leave an out for both of them.

"Want to talk about it?"

Scott shook his head definitely in the negative, and Paul did not attempt to pry. He had offered because he wanted Scott to know he did care about what he was going through, but the question also allowed Scott the opportunity to retain his privacy in the matter if he so chose—and for now he had.

"Maybe later, then," Paul told him quietly. Scott still gave no verbal answer, and he continued to retain his hold for several more minutes. Paul did likewise. The inner disturbance his son was experiencing, he felt strongly, although he could not categorize it properly. Perhaps in Scott's case, he was simply too close to the problem, so to speak. Something he had learned very early on in his relationship with the teenager was that a true perspective of a problem was difficult when experienced from such close range. Objectivity was easier from a distance.

Finally, Scott began to relax again, and so did the hold he had around his dad. He took a deep breath and hoped his voice would be audible. "I'm OK now." He swallowed. His mouth was dry, his eyes burned, and his head was pounding, but that was all quite secondary to the experience of the nightmare from which he had awakened. He had had nightmares before, but his dreams had never held the kind of intensity that normally only reality itself encompassed.

Paul relinquished his own hold, and Scott straightened. Paul was not the best at shielding his own reactions, and his eyes displayed a mixture of surprise and sadness at his son's appearance. Scott's face was flushed, and the large red blotches near and around his eyes almost made it appear that he had been struck several times. Paul brushed his hand across the teenager's cheeks and eyes to wipe away some of the remaining salt and tears. The boy's eyes were quite swollen. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Scott reached for a handful of tissues from the bedside table. He shook his head. "Yeah, I'll be fine. I'm sorry I woke you. I know you're expecting a long day tomorrow." It was obvious he was embarrassed by the emotional display.

"You don't have to worry about me," Paul reassured him, trying to put a lighter tone into his voice that he did not feel. He did manage a smile. "I don't need as much sleep as you do, remember?" His smile now held the tinge of a joke. It was a private one. They both knew the longer he remained on Earth as Paul Forrester, the more like Paul he became—physically, anyway. At first, he had needed little or no sleep at all. Only when he realized that the host he was in needed periodic rest did he actually stop to do so. But as time had passed, the habit of resting when Scott did soon became a necessity in order to keep the host healthy.

Now, Paul was having greater and greater difficulty differentiating between himself and the host. In all probability, they would become one and the same—inseparable—one day, if it had not happened already. To Paul, it made no difference because he had no intentions of leaving his son...or Jenny when they found her—not again. Still, he had a few quirks that had not yet disappeared—like the fact that he could survive easily on a third of the sleeping hours that his son needed. Some quirks, of course, would never disappear. The telekinetic powers were his forever. That was a mental capability that had developed over the millennia in his race and would not merely fade away. It was also something that he had passed on to his son.

Others, such as the empathic receptions and transmissions would also remain with him and would soon become more apparent in Scott, although Scott would be older before he learned how to use them properly. It was a more difficult power to understand and deal with, and right now Paul almost wished that the intensity of his own empathic responses were not so acute. He knew very well that Scott was not fine, and something not only troubled him now, but had been troubling him all week. However, the fact was that Scott had refused to confide in him yet, so he told himself he had to wait. After tonight, though, he hoped he would not have much longer to wait. The infinite patience he had had at his arrival on the planet was not as inexhaustible as it once was.

After Scott had lain back down and appeared to be at least partially settled, Paul pulled the covers back up to his chest. He brushed the boy's hair back from his forehead, where it hung in wet strips, and then got up and returned to his own bed. He did not let himself go back to sleep until he saw that Scott had done so and seemed to be resting quietly, but in the boy's agitated state, that turned out to be over two hours later.  
  
---  
  
His fifth-period World History class was going no better than the rest of the day had. Scott figured that because it was Friday, some of the tension would ease off as the day progressed. For a while, that idea had even amused him a little, due to the conversation he had had with his dad on Monday concerning days of the week. But the lighthearted feelings refused to linger, and the feelings of dread, created by the dream, refused to dissipate. He had his notebook open, trying to take notes while Mrs. Donovan lectured on the Franco-Prussian political struggles of the 18th Century, but he was not having a lot of success with the effort. Every time he would pull his mind back to his teacher's words, within a few sentences he would be right back where he started—the events of his dream. Of all the dreams he had ever had, 99.9% of them he could not remember. Why couldn't he forget this one?

"In the mid 1700's," Mrs. Donovan was saying, "Maria Theresa of Austria, in a desperate attempt to regain her lost province from Frederick II, sent an envoy to Paris to get..." She noticed, that somewhere along the way, she had lost the attention of several of her students, including one she had not expected. Scott Hayden did not often spend the class hour daydreaming. She turned her statement into a question. "... get what? Scott?"

"Ma'am?" Scott snapped back to the present at the sound of his name. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Maria Theresa, Scott," she repeated. "After she lost many of her people to another monarch, she sent an envoy to Paris in the hope of regaining the loss. My question was, 'What was it that the envoy was sent to obtain?'"

Scott actually turned pale. Her words triggered several harsh segments of his nightmare, and he found he could not answer her—not evenly, which would have been ten times more embarrassing than not answering at all. He remained silent.

"A small hint," she told him. "It was in your reading assignment last night."

Scott was having a difficult time drowning out the voice of the stranger from his dream. He pushed it as far as he could to the back of his mind and looked at his teacher. The young woman was waiting for an answer. Why did she have to pick on him today? He shook his head and looked down to the floor.

Mrs. Donovan started to clip off a remark about study habits until she noticed that the teenager was gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles were white, and what she had seen in his eyes before he had looked away from her had actually been much closer to fear than embarrassment. She turned to another student. "Casey?" she asked one of the girls across the room.

"The queen commissioned her ambassador to secure an alliance with the Parisian government," Casey answered.

"And why was that so unusual? James?"

James had been looking at Scott. He and Daniel had both been curious about their friend's behavior all week, and today had been the worst yet. He immediately gave his attention back to his teacher. "It... it was the first time there had been a treaty between the French and the Hapsburgs in over two hundred years."

"Thank you," she told him. She glanced briefly back to Scott, who seemed no less nervous now that the immediate pressure of questions and answers was gone. She looked around her class as she walked along the space between her desk and the students. "Of course, the whole affair ended most dismally for the monarch. Some fifteen years after the incident with Frederick, after the bloody Seven Years' War, the queen ended up losing everything, despite all her desperate attempts to preserve what she felt was rightfully hers."

Mrs. Donovan could have sworn she saw Scott flinch, but she tried not to draw attention to her observation, and reversed her line of vision again to the other side of the room.

Scott had reacted to her words; it was true. Somehow, incidental words were penetrating in a way that should not have for a history lecture. 'It had ended dismally after fifteen years. Everything lost.' He closed his eyes and unconsciously shuddered. It was that action Mrs. Donovan had seen and had interpreted in her own way. His fingers gripped his pen tightly, and the sharp edge of the logo on the clip dug into his palm. It hurt a little, but the dream carried worse feelings for him. He tried one more time to force his mind back where it belonged. The bell rang, ending the class period, and he let out a breath of semi-relief. He had a strong inclination to bolt for the door and mark a straight path out of the building before anyone could stop him; however, Mrs. Donovan was quick to take that option from him.

"Scott?" she called to him in a voice just loud enough to be heard above the rustling of the other students gathering their things to leave. "Will you stay just for a minute please?"

He knew he should have expected it, but he had certainly hoped against it. Getting up after the last of the other teenagers had cleared the classroom, he walked up to his teacher's desk. He still had a firm grip on his pen and used the sting of it in his clenched fist as a distraction against his nervousness. Although Mrs. Donovan was the only teacher in the school that he really felt comfortable talking' with, 'talk' was not something he wished to do just now.

Rachel Donovan was the newest of the Mason Corners' teachers—aside from the assistant coach—and by all appearances was the youngest as well. She felt the boy's increasing edginess as he approached her. She gathered her lecture notes unhurriedly, trying to put the rush of the afternoon behind her for the moment and attend to the problem at hand as calmly and quietly as she could. She wanted to help, not make matters worse—for whatever the circumstances might be. She looked up when the boy came to stand in front of her desk. "Scott, you seemed to be more than just a little preoccupied today," she remarked as she set the papers aside and rested her arms in front of her on the desk. Her voice was as gentle as a soft autumn breeze. "It's not at all like you. You're one of my best students. Is there a problem? Possibly anything you could talk to me about?"

Scott shook his head. "No, ma'am." While her voice did have a certain calming effect on him, it was not enough against the fear he was dealing with at this time—a fear he could not yet understand, much less explain to a virtual stranger. "It's nothing, really," he told her, his grip tightening again." I didn't sleep all that well last night. I'll be fine after a couple of good nights' sleep."

The woman looked away from the boy's eyes and down to her hands. The explanation was more than a little lame. Tired boys Scott's age seldom looked as if they might burst into tears at the slightest off-word. Girls perhaps and some boys she had known during her lifetime experiences, but not this one. For a kid who had been jerked around the country every turn of the coin, Scott appeared unusually stable emotionally—at least, until a day or so ago—not to mention at this moment. As she lifted her head, she noticed the hand that held the pen. It was just as white-knuckled as it had been earlier when he had been gripping the edge of his desk. She straightened and sat back. "OK," she told him. "If you don't want to talk, I suppose I'll just have to accept that." She tried to draw a smile from him, but succeeded only a little. She sighed. "Maybe you are just having a lousy week, Scott. Everyone has one of those once in a while. I'll reserve judgment for now."

"Yes, ma'am," he returned.

"That's all I wanted to say. You can go." The boy nodded and turned to leave. "See that you do get that rest this weekend," she said as he walked toward the door.

"Yes, ma'am, I will," he said and then left, hoping he could avoid any other entanglements.

Mrs. Donovan had no intention of recalling the boy. She had a few more things she needed to sort out in her mind before pursuing the matter any farther. Something was nagging at her and had been since Scott had first joined her class that year. She wanted to know more about him—more than what the sketchy transcripts told her and something more tangible than what her feelings were hinting to her, which on their own were beginning to border on the ridiculous. She wished she knew something about Scott's father, Paul Forrester. She needed to know something more in order to differentiate reality from imagination. If there was a serious problem—either between father and son or for father and son, she wanted to help if she could...if they would let her. She returned to her papers, telling herself that she would make a definite decision of action by evening.

 

Scott went straight to his locker, packed his backpack and left the school grounds. He would probably catch it Monday for skipping PE, but right now he just didn't care. He wanted to be away from the school, the students— everyone—for a while. He had to sort things out!

There was a park on the southeast corner of the town. It was about eight blocks from the apartment but across town from the high school. Considering the time of day, it was his best bet to be alone so that was where he decided to go.

The park was a nice size, larger than some might expect for the town, but there had been a large land grant made by one of the older, more preservation-minded citizens. It had a tennis court and baseball diamond and a paved trail, carved out among the trees, for walking or jogging or running.

Scott stood at the west end of the trail and scanned the area. As he had hoped, the park was deserted. Since it was Friday, though, he knew that would not last. Therefore, he would just have to make the most of the time he had. He looked around again and then down at his right hand. The palm had been stinging for some time now. The distraction he had used during his conversation with Mrs. Donovan had ended up working against him in the end. He had gripped the pen more tightly than he had realized, and the sharp clip had cut into the skin of his palm in several places. It said quite a bit about his tension level. The cuts were still bleeding a little, and he wiped the sticky wetness, which was well mixed with perspiration by now, onto the thighs of his jeans. He did not think much about the stain, since he had done it several times already, but he did wonder if his teacher had noticed anything during their conversation. He hoped not, feeling she already had too much attention fixed in his direction as it was.

Scott walked over to a bench, which sat just to the side of the trail, and dropped his backpack underneath the seat. He took off his jacket and laid it on top of the pack, and then, after one more glance around him, he started down the trail at a good clip. He paced himself for a couple of minutes, then increased his speed, gradually at first, but soon dropped any and all restraints to hold down his stride.

He had no idea how long he ran or how far. The trail circled around through the park in a misshapen oval. He did not keep track of how many times he ran the circumference of it—three, perhaps even as many as five times. The distance was substantial enough, though, for him to exhaust his energy and dispel some of the tension. He finally reversed the process and slowed down gradually until he was back to a fast walk. He figured he had enough problems without adding muscle cramps to the list. After he came to a stop, Scott braced himself against a tree a moment and then leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs, and tried to take in long, even breaths. He closed his eyes and began to tally the results of his run. It had been a very long time since he had really 'let himself go' physically like he had just done.

It was not that he could break any world records for speed—although slow he wasn't— but he had a stamina that was beyond the considered norm. Once he reached a certain level of speed, he was able to maintain it for an inordinate length of time. The same was true for other sports that he had tried, but what he had once considered 'fun' in earlier years, he now knew to be excessive displays that could cost him dearly if the wrong person took notice. It drew attention to himself, which he could well do without, and now that he was at an age level where people really did pay attention to things like that, it was especially important not to do something that would encourage that attention. Now, of course, he knew that there was a specific reason behind the ability, and for that reason, showing it off was courting danger, not glory. He could live without both quite well.

As his heart rate eased down to normal, so did his breathing. His leg muscles were issuing a few complaints, but not much to speak of at the moment. He did have a stitch in his right side that was being stubborn about leaving, and he massaged it with his left hand the best he could, considering his right hand was bruised and tender from the cuts, which tended to bleed again whenever he flexed it too much. If nothing else, though, he had accomplished something. He did not feel like he wanted to put his fist through a wall anymore. However, the strange heaviness was still clinging all too stubbornly. He opened his eyes again and straightened. A quick glance at his watch told him he had been running much longer than he had initially intended, and he definitely needed to start home. He pushed his hair back from his face and turned to head for the bench where he had left his things. But when he turned around, he bumped into something—or rather, someone.

It startled him, of course, but more than it normally would have under other circumstances. The man was a good head taller, and Scott had to look up. The first thing he saw clearly was a pair of very blue eyes. He jumped back reflexively, but stopped himself from a verbal reaction, of which he was very glad because it would have been incredibly embarrassing.

"Coach McKinnon," Scott managed to get out. His breath had been stolen away by the man's unexpected appearance. He had heard absolutely nothing.

"Scott," the man greeted him. "I was driving by and saw you out here running. We missed you in practice this afternoon."

"I know I shouldn't have cut, but I had some things I had to work out." His eyes confirmed his words.

"I got a pretty good look at your system," McKinnon told him. "Not too bad from where I was standing."

Scott shook his head. "I was just..."

"Working things out," McKinnon finished, sensing the boy's uneasiness. "It's OK, Scott. You don't have to explain to me." He smiled. "But that's not to say you won't have to do some explaining to Coach Granger. And maybe a little make-up work."

"Yes, sir," Scott acknowledged the truth of the man's statements.

"You know, you were going at a good pace, Scott. And you were keeping it up. Have you had much training?"

"Not really."

"Have you given any thought to joining the track team? Coach Granger has been getting some names together for this season and the tryouts that are coming up. I'm sure he would be more than impressed by..."

"No, sir," the boy returned quickly. "I don't think so. My dad and I'll probably be moving on pretty soon."

"I see."

Scott had heard the tone before. He did wish people wouldn't always draw such hasty conclusions—which most always pointed to the worst. "My dad's a photographer," he told the man. "Contract's out." For a moment, the man's expression told Scott he did not understand, and Scott was so used to explaining things to his father, that he did so now without even thinking about it. "He does freelance work for different newspapers and magazines," he said.

"So that puts you on the road a lot," McKinnon replied, more at ease with the teenager's last words.

"Yes, sir," Scott's nervousness was edging upward again, although he saw no real reason why it should be doing so, other than the fact that the man had startled him quite a bit a few moments ago.

"I would think that would make it difficult on your mother, as well as on you," the man said.

Scott swallowed. For some reason, talking about his mother with anyone but his father made him uncomfortable and even sadder about not being able to be with her. "My mom's not living with us right now." The man nodded as if he understood, and Scott added quickly to prevent another of the usual misconceptions. "My parents aren't divorced or anything. My mother's just not traveling with us." It was the truth.

McKinnon smiled. "I understand."

The teenager knew there was no way the man did, but he certainly could not explain the circumstances, especially to a stranger. He decided to change the subject. "You live on this side of town, Mr. McKinnon?"

"Actually, I live off Kendricks Street, near the school, but the day turned out to be such a nice one, that I thought I'd go for a drive. I saw you out here quite by accident."

Scott really wondered about his luck sometimes. It was the kind he would sell real cheap if he could. Actually, there was someone he knew that he would very gladly give it to—George Fox. That man couldn't have enough bad luck to suit him. "I came here 'cause it's quiet most of the time," he said, then glanced down at his watch, needing a graceful and plausible excuse to escape further conversation. "I better get going before my dad starts wondering what happened to me."

McKinnon smiled. "I thought boys your age were supposed to stay out late on Friday. A strive for independence, as they say," he said, and Scott could not be sure if the man was being flippant or serious, or to what degree of either. His expression was difficult for him to read.

"I guess I've got enough independence to deal with already with all the moving around we do." He shrugged. "Besides, it doesn't bother me that my dad likes to know where I am." He hoped his words would end the probing and give the man the hint that they needed to cut things short. Scott had started walking slowly back in the direction of the bench where he had left his pack. However, McKinnon persisted in staying with him.

"I've heard some of the other teenage boys talk about their parents, and I've noted a certain amount of resentment on that subject from them."

It was pretty much a textbook statement, and Scott wondered what kind of psychology the man was trying on him.

"It's not like he has a rope around my neck or anything," Scott returned, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was quickly beginning to get frustrated with this line of talk. "He just cares what happens to me, that's all. I can live with that." Scott had a few brief flashes about when he had indeed had adverse feelings about it. But those feelings were before he had really gotten to know his father and understood better how he looked at things. And, of course, it had been before his knowledge of George Fox and the FSA and how dangerous their situation truly was.

"With all the things you hear about that happen these days," McKinnon offered, "it would appear your dad has good reason to be concerned."

Scott just nodded this time. It was a concession on his part, but actually it was an understatement that was almost laughable. He definitely had a few things to add to the list that McKinnon had referred to, and he knew—without fear of contradiction—they were things with which other parents did not have to contend.

They finally arrived at the bench where Scott's backpack was. "I really do have to go now," he told the man.

"I can give you a ride home," McKinnon offered.

"Thanks, but I don't live that far from here. Besides, I need the walk to cool down."

"Very well," McKinnon said. "I'll see you in class Monday."

Scott nodded, and then took off at an even sprint across the park before any other conversation could be started.

Eric stared after the boy for a few moments, thinking. There were some questions forming in his mind about this one that was not allowing him to categorize him with the other students in the town. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Scott Hayden could stand watching more closely.  
  
---  
  
Paul was already home when Scott came through the apartment door. The teenager did not want to alert his father that anything was wrong; therefore, he tried to slide through it. He put on a smile and straightened his stance as much as he dared so that the attempt would not draw attention either.

"Sorry about the time," Scott told his father.

"I was getting a little worried," Paul returned truthfully, standing up from the couch. The tone was quiet and calm, no reprimand at the corners. "Did you have a late practice?"

Scott shook his head. "No. I was at the park. I..." It had been his intention not to tell what had transpired at school, but his nerves were really beginning to fray again, and he just could not reweave them quickly enough. What little he had been able to pull back together during the run in the park had started unraveling again during and after his talk with the assistant coach.

Paul could sense more than he could see, and during the past week—not to mention the night before—he had seen almost more than he could keep silent about around Scott. He did not like what was going on with his son, and it was not the kind of thing that normally strained relations between parent and teenager.

The two stared at each other for several moments. Scott looked away first, embarrassed that he could not arrange his words to talk to his father; even after all they had been through together. He dropped his pack on the floor by the kitchen table.

Paul's eyes followed his actions. In doing so, he saw the dark stains on the right thigh of Scott's jeans. He frowned deeply. "Scott, what happened?" He stepped closer. The concern in his eyes and in the sound of his voice was unmistakable. "Are you hurt?"

Scott looked down to see what his dad was referring to. Then it dawned on him. He touched the spot and took a deep breath, then shrugged. "Not really." He held out his hand and turned it palm up. "It looks worse than it is," he said quickly as Paul took the hand in his. "It's nothing. Really," Scott insisted, but when the man stretched the hand open to examine it, the boy could not help flinching. The pen clip had managed to dig into the skin in several places where he had closed his hand around the pen repeatedly. Flexing it started the bleeding again.

Paul led him over to the kitchen sink and ran cold water over the hand. For a moment it stung, then the cold felt good, and Scott relaxed his arm some. However, that was all that relaxed.

"How did you do this?" his father asked him.

"I was talking to Mrs. Donovan after class." He stopped again then shrugged. "It just happened."

"What happened?" Paul insisted, finding his calmness beginning to sway a bit. His worry from the night before, added to this, was doing things to create a higher emotional level than he was used to experiencing or displaying. They had experienced trouble before, but this felt very different, and he did not understand why. "Scott, please talk to me," he said, not releasing the wrist and placing his other hand on the boy's shoulder to turn him to face him.

Scott took a deep breath. His voice wanted to catch and choke off. The tension re-escalated. "I was thinking about my dream last night. I couldn't get it out of my head all day. By fifth period, I was hearing the things Mrs. Donovan was saying like they belonged to what I'd dreamed." He stopped a moment to take another breath and shook his head. "It's crazy. I reacted to it all crazy. I wanted to get out, run away. At the very least, I felt like I could've put my fist through something." He closed his eyes a minute, away from his father's stare. The eyes held so much concern they made him feel guilty for coming up with another problem they did not need right now.

"Mrs. Donovan had me stay after class to ask me if something was wrong or if I needed help." He looked back up. "I'll give her that much over the others; she does try. She's different, sort of." He shook his head, going back to his explanation. "Anyway, I couldn't keep my mind off the dream, even when she was trying to talk to me. I was holding my pen, and I just kept gripping it tighter and tighter. The clip had a sharp edge. I just didn't know how tight I was holding it until I got out of the room. It was a bad distraction to try." He flinched as he tried to flex his hand again.

"Did your coach say anything about it at practice? He must have seen you were hurt. I mean, how could he not see?" Paul's voice was even again, but it was only with effort now.

"I didn't go to practice," Scott returned, leaning against the cabinet as Paul released his arm. "I couldn't take any more school after Mrs. Donovan's class. I went to the park. I've been running all afternoon."

The confession, such as it was so far, was not particularly earthshaking, but it was a beginning, and the tiny hole in the dike that Paul was now trying to punch through was better than no leak at all. He leaned against the cabinet beside his son and put a gentle hand on Scott's arm.

"Did it help?" he asked to keep things going.

Scott shrugged again. "Sort of...for a while. At least, until Mr. McKinnon came up on me out of nowhere."

"Your new coach at school?" Paul asked for confirmation, and Scott nodded. "What did he say about you skipping class?"

"Not much. He said he understood." Scott looked over to his dad. "But that's a pretty overused line." He looked back at the floor. "I don't know about him. He said he was just driving by and saw me."

"Sounds like a simple enough explanation to me," Paul returned, his voice noncommittal.

"Maybe. There's just something about that guy. He's kind of weird. The way he acts, the way he talks sometimes. It's like listening to a walking textbook—on sports, play strategies, child psychology. He's patient enough for the most part, but then practically explodes if you make a mistake—just like some of those coaches you see on TV." Scott shuddered slightly. "I can't figure him out; he just doesn't feel right. Ever since he came,..." He didn't finish; just thought for a moment. His last words were low. "He's got the strangest eyes. Almost like..." He shook his head again, then straightened and walked toward the living room. "I might as well face it. I'm the one that's going crazy."

"Scott," Paul followed him, stopped him just short of the bedroom door, and turned him around to face him again.

"It's true," the boy insisted. "I'm beginning to act as crazy as I dream." There were suddenly tears in his eyes. The pressure was peaking again now, and he was no longer in a place where he had to put up a facade. Although he didn't have the excuse of a nightmare this time, he didn't care. He was tired of playing the defensive, independent part of a teenager. His emotional resources were strained. He needed someone else's strength now. He reached for his father and put his arms around him tightly.

While his son was silent, Paul could feel the dampness of his son's tears on his shoulder where Scott's head rested. Paul held him close knowing no more of what was actually upsetting the teenager than he had the night before. However, the nightmare seemed to be presenting itself as a very distinct and important part of the puzzle.

"Scott," Paul said finally. "I think we should sit down and you tell me what you can remember of that dream you had last night."

"It was just a dream, Dad," Scott tried to insist, but his voice hardly backed his conviction on the matter.

Paul laid his hand on the boy's head. "Not when it makes you feel like this." He released his hold and pulled gently out of Scott's embrace so that he could look at him. "I want you to tell me everything you can remember about it."

Scott finally nodded. While he wanted to evade the issue, he knew it was useless to try to ignore it. He walked with his father to the couch and sat down.

For a few minutes there was silence. Scott didn't know where to start; he didn't even want to start. Thinking about any part of the dream made him feel uncomfortable. There were too many sensations and too much confusion relating to them. He leaned back, trying to relax even a little, then leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his knees. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder again. While it was for reassurance, it also urged him to begin.

Scott sighed. "Last night, when I woke you up, it was the second time for me. The first time didn't bother me so much. I guess because I couldn't remember too much of the dream then. After I woke up the second time, I couldn't forget it. I still can't." He took a deep breath and began describing what he remembered. "In the first dream I saw lights. It was like I was looking through a slowly spinning prism, except a lot brighter. And there were feelings...impressions, sort of. Different depending on the place I'd be looking. Some of the feelings were so strong...strong against something. But one...one was different from all the others. I don't really know how to describe it. Sort of sad...or disappointed, maybe a little angry, but very determined."

He took a breath, and looked at his father. "It seemed to make sense while I was there...at that place, wherever it was, but after I woke up, I couldn't begin to sort it out. When I went back to sleep and started dreaming again, I didn't go back to that place. I was in a forest—where we were last weekend." He glanced at his father, and the distant look he saw there made him stop a moment. "Dad?" he called, uncertain that he would even hear him.

Scott's change of inflection alerted Paul to his son's summons, and his considerations of certain unsettling coincidences broke off. He immediately focused back on the teenager, whose look expressed both confusion and concern. Paul laid his hand on Scott's back.

"Tell me the rest," he said, offering no explanation for his lapse of attention.

Scott continued to stare at his dad, and his eyes showed reluctance again.

Paul increased the pressure of the hand he had on Scott's back. "The rest, Scott. Go on. Please. What was your second dream about?"

The boy stared back for a moment, then answered. "You."

Paul looked at him questioningly. "You were so scared when I woke you up. Something very bad must have happened." His expression changed to an even deeper concern. "Did I do something in your dream to cause that fear?"

Scott shook his head. He often forgot how impressionable his father was because things were still so new to him—comparably to a small child's in some respects—especially the myriad of feelings that went along with being human. He realized that he had just made it sound as if Paul had been responsible for the unexpected upheaval. "No, it was someone—someone I couldn't see who was talking to you. He kept telling you that you had to go with him."

"Fox?"

"No, that's just it. That's the main reason I can't make anything fit. It wasn't Fox or anybody from the FSA. And I know it wasn't because of the things he was saying to you. Mainly he said you weren't supposed to be here, and you had to go. You kept telling him you weren't going to leave because of me. That's when he started talking about some judgment that had been made and that it was his duty to honor it." Scott's face became even more serious.

"The guy'd never talk to me. I'd try to intervene, but he wouldn't answer my questions. To him it was like I wasn't there at all. And that's another thing. I was there; he wasn't—not that I could ever see. And then you disappeared. I could hear your voice, and you tried to talk to me, but the stranger, whoever he was, kept interfering. Then I couldn't get either of you to answer me. I started feeling so alone."

"And frightened," Paul added, beginning to be more keenly aware of what Scott had actually experienced in the dream and how he was feeling while he recounted it.

"What the guy was saying was what frightened me," Scott countered. "He said he was going to take you away with him. He said that he'd been sent under a strict trust that he intended to honor, and when you told him no again and that it was your final word on it, he said..." Scott stopped and tried to steady his breathing, which was increasing in the excitement of recollection. "The stranger said that he saw only one thing in his way." He was looking straight at his father now. "I think he meant me." His voice lost the strength it had achieved previously. The strange sense of reality that the dream held was overwhelming him again. He looked down a moment to regain command of his stubborn, unruly emotions, then back to Paul.

"The forest got so quiet—no birds or even a breeze in the air. Then there was a noise behind me, and, when I turned around—hoping it was you—there was an animal. A huge live mountain of fur was coming down on me—a bear—a huge bear. It reached out for me—long arms, sharp claws. And it had the bluest eyes I've ever seen and so strange for an animal and so cold. It lunged at me, and I...I screamed." He closed his eyes. "The next thing I saw was you. But even after I knew it had just been a dream, I couldn't get any of it out of my mind. The harder I try, the worse it gets. Dad, I've had thousands of dreams, but nothing ever seemed that real before. None of them ever made me feel like this."

Paul had moved his hand up to Scott's neck and rubbed his fingers against the tightness he found there. The dream was troubling his son because of the reality it insisted on portraying in his memory. It troubled him because the content of the nightmare bore too many coincidences to shelve in any nonchalant fashion. Paul was truly at a loss at that moment to know how to deal with the situation. He needed time to think, he knew, but his son had already been holding down on the problem for too long as it was.

"Scott, you know I don't like seeing you upset by this. I wish I knew what to say to make you feel more at ease with it." He grasped the boy's neck firmly to emphasize his point.

"Just say you won't leave me," Scott returned pointedly and in a tone Paul had not heard him use except under some very desperate circumstances in the past. The teenager's eyes were even more expressive of the request than his voice.

Paul released Scott's neck and placed his hand on the side of his face instead, brushing a tear from his son's cheek with his thumb.

"I won't," he told him frankly.

"Even after we find Mom again," Scott added. "I don't want you to leave." He swallowed. "Please."

Paul stared at him a moment longer. His son had never told him outright before now that he wanted him to remain after Jenny had been relocated. It was true, he had once had plans on that order, but this request was like a seal placed on a declaration. However, this bound him to his decision like no declaration could.

"I don't intend to leave either of you," he said and added, "not ever again." He pulled Scott back into an embrace, and the boy immediately put his arms around him.

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Scott's words were only a whisper. Any louder and his voice would have broken again.

"You won't have to," Paul returned, clutching him more tightly. Affection had been more difficult to cultivate with Scott than it had been with Jenny because the boy had been so reluctant to accept him at first. And even though Scott had turned out to be the affectionate personality his mother was Paul had still retained reservations because of his age and what he had observed from other father-son relationships. However, tonight, like during the time following the nightmare, he harbored no such reservations. Now, along with the concern of the present, was a painful echo from the past. This time it had not been resurrected from his own dreams but through his son's dreams.

What troubled him most about the situation was that he had never once told Scott anything relating to the conditions of his return to Earth - nothing. As far as the boy knew, the mother ship that had retrieved his father—Scott Hayden—fifteen years ago had returned to drop him off to take care of things. The teenager did not know that that idea was the farthest thing from reality. Because of all the things that life had thrown at Scott, Paul had not wanted to add anymore than he had already been told—not yet. He wondered. Did that same reasoning hold up now? Was it wise to keep it from Scott? Had his own memories and worries triggered this particular incident? It was something Paul had to consider.  
  
---  
  
After Fox had left Washington those months ago, following the lead General Wade had given him, he traveled straight to the Air Force base that had sent the report. At the base, he had learned little more than what had been recorded on the report he had received in Washington, and he took a private charter jet to Laramie, the point where the 'undesignated' craft had disappeared from radar. A scan of county and city police reports for the general area had turned up only a few routine disturbances for the day in question. The state law enforcement records related about a dozen highway accidents due to the storm that had entered the Laramie area that same evening. Three incidents had ended in hospitalization of the drivers, and two had been reported as fatalities. One of the two fatality reports had been rescinded, and it was that particular report that had intrigued Fox's curiosity.

No body had been found at the sight of the crash. The car, a Camaro, had been totally destroyed by fire. In fact, the crash had involved a very intense explosion, and what had not been blown into fragments, had been consumed by flame. Traces of blood on what remained of the windshield had led the police to the rather obvious conclusion that a search for survivors was futile. However, further examination of the wreckage had yielded no further signs of the car's occupant. A trace of the plates—what had been left of them—had given the state police a name, and a check through the system had finally yielded the fact that the owner, Eric McKinnon, was still quite alive. The unreported crash had soon been explained away in medical terms as a memory loss after the crash.

Eric McKinnon had, however, disappeared again, and for the seven and a half months following those findings, Fox had been trying to locate the man's whereabouts. Perhaps the coincidence of circumstances was just that—a coincidence. But it was the first clue he had been able to latch onto for months. Maybe he was following a completely different kind of shadow this time, but something told him that these particular shadows held a commonality too coincidental to explain away.

When Eric McKinnon's name finally did surface in California, by way of an inquiry made by the Fresno Independent School District, Fox ordered travel arrangements to be made for that part of the state.

CHAPTER 5

Scott sat at the kitchen table, seven pieces of colored paper in front of him. The pieces included five triangles of various sizes, a square, and a rhomboid. Their Social Sciences teacher, Mrs. Halstead, had given each class member the cut pieces inside an envelope for a weekend assignment. They were to arrange the pieces into a single standard geometric figure and then write down a general statement which related the puzzle to life and its experiences. Scott did not mind the puzzle so much. In fact, the challenge was an enjoyable change of pace. However, to make a philosophical lesson out of it was another matter all together. Of course, first he had to put the puzzle together—and correctly. He could make all sorts of designs, and had, out of the assemblage, but none yet that could legitimately be called a standard geometric figure. Rearranging the pieces for what seemed like the hundredth time, and with no more success than he had had the first time, he sighed, rested his chin in his hands, and stared at the puzzle.

Paul had been working on Saturday's lunch in the kitchen. He heard the sigh and wondered what was giving Scott so much trouble.

"What's the problem?" Paul asked as he set his and Scott's sandwiches down on the table, and then reached back to the kitchen bar for the glasses of milk.

Scott had once again separated the colored pieces of paper, and they lay disarranged in the center of the table. "I thought I was pretty good at puzzles," the boy said. "This can't be as hard as I'm making it." Sighing again, he leaned back. "I think I've looked at it too long."

Paul perused the pieces. "What are you supposed to do with them?" he asked, sounding slightly leery. By this time he knew all too well that sometimes he could ask extremely naive questions. He was hoping that maybe this was not one of those times and that he might be able to help.

Scott shrugged. "Oh, Mrs. Halstead, my teacher for Social Sciences, gave each of us these pieces of paper. You're supposed to be able to put them together to make a single geometric figure." He leaned forward again on his elbows and added, "At least that's what she said. On the other hand, she could just be trying to get even with us for something and is trying to rattle us with it."

"Rattle you?" Paul was confused again. The word obviously had a different meaning than the literal definition.

Scott smiled. "It means..." He stopped. Explaining idioms had its drawbacks. He was going to say "shake up," but he knew that wouldn't help his dad understand things any better. "Let's just say she might be trying to confuse us with this puzzle just to make us think harder about the rest of the assignment."

"What's that?"

"To write a statement that relates the puzzle to life and a person's experiences in life. All of a sudden I'm taking a philosophy course," he quipped.

"That doesn't sound so bad," Paul commented. "You're just trying too hard, I think. He picked up his sandwich. "It's really not complicated at all—unless, like you said, you make it that way." He took a bite.

Scott threw him a sideways glance. The soft-spoken answer had a familiar ring to it. "You know what this is, don't you?" he asked him, his tone slightly leading.

"Um-hmm." Paul mumbled through another bite.

"Dad, I've been working with this thing for almost two hours. You take one look at the pieces and..." His father smiled. "Would you tell me?" Scott asked.

"It's your assignment," Paul countered.

"I know, but I have two pages of algebra, an English lit report, and two chapters to read for history class. Give me a break here. I've only got one weekend." Paul did not look like he was being swayed, so Scott tried one more approach. "What's the difference if you help with this than if you help me with my algebra?"

"I think maybe your teacher wanted to make you think, not me."

"I have been," Scott persisted. "Believe me, Dad, the other kids'll be asking their parents if they can't figure it out."

Paul looked up from his sandwich to meet his son's eyes. Scott was still showing definite signs of fatigue from the unsettling events of the past week. It was possible that that had something to do with the fact the he was having an extra hard time with this particular assignment. Too, Paul could not detect anything that pointed to the idea that he was trying to con his way out of doing it. He was quite aware of how long he had been working on it. He took another bite of his sandwich as if he were not going to heed the plea.

For a moment Scott looked rather dejected, then Paul spoke up with no preamble at all.

"It's a square."

Scott's expression changed to mild surprise at obtaining an answer, then looked back at the pieces. His expression turned incredulous. "You sure?" he asked sincerely.

Paul, taking a drink of his milk, eyed his son again. Scott recognized the look. There was no doubt in the man's mind; it was obvious.

"Show me?" Scott requested, not wanting to seem overly skeptical, but wanting to know how the array of pieces fit together the way his dad had just said they would. His tone was far from demanding—quite innocent.

Paul set down his glass and with one hand arranged the pieces—into a square—first try, no hesitations. When he glanced back up at Scott, the boy was shaking his head.

"You're scary sometimes. You know that?"

"Eat your lunch," Paul told him good-naturedly.

"How did you know?" Scott ventured, his curiosity jostled. "I mean, did you...? Can you...?" He kept leaving the questions open-ended, figuring his dad would realize where he was leading. However, the answer was contrary to what Scott expected. In fact, it was quite an ordinary answer.

"I recognized the pieces," Paul told him. "It's a Tangram. An ancient Chinese puzzle. It was in a book I was reading a few months ago." He took another bite before adding, "Pretty interesting, don't you think?"

Scott sighed again and finally picked up his sandwich. "I wish I had your memory," he commented.

"You do," Paul returned flatly, then smiled at his son's skeptical look before adding, "You just haven't learned how to use it yet." Finished with his lunch, he crossed his arms, resting them on the table in front of him. "But you will."

"I hope before I reach a hundred years old," the boy quipped.

"Where I come from that's barely past childhood."

Taking a drink to wash down another bite, Scott almost choked. He coughed and put the glass down again. This was something that had not come up before, although he could not think of a good reason why it hadn't. "Just how old are you?"

"Earth years?" Paul asked, then frowned as he tried a mental conversion. Then one eyebrow arched - a characteristic Scott had learned to recognize as uncertainty or sometimes surprise. Paul looked over to his son. "You know, I don't think I can calculate the conversion."

"Dad, you can't be that old."

"No," Paul returned quickly. "That's not what I meant at all. Space travel entails encounters with different time barriers. Rate of travel, like light speed, alters time calculation. You don't deal in hours or days or years. Speed and distance and time aren't always constants because the universe is constantly changing."

"I guess mapping the stars isn't quite like mapping out Highway 401," Scott concluded, then had to smile. It was rather amusing the way his father could talk so calmly and matter-of-factly about space travel, and then the next minute come up with a question about something any three-year-old child on Earth took for granted.

"Basically, it's the same," Paul said, then smiled back. "Just a different set of tourists who use the information." He looked down again at the Tangram. "You know, puzzles are kind of like living entities. You take them apart, and they're something totally different. You take someone—or something—out of its environment and it's no longer the same. Sometimes it doesn't even have the same purpose." He stopped, thinking. Jenny Hayden had suddenly come to mind. When he snapped out of his brief reverie, he realized that Scott was staring at him again. "I thought you had a mountain of other homework," he chided, sliding away from any possible questions about his thoughts.

Scott nodded, getting up and stacking the two now empty plates and glasses as he did. "Yeah." He set the dishes in the sink and walked back to the table to retrieve the puzzle pieces. His dad still had a rather distant look in his eyes. For some reason, Scott thought he knew what the man was thinking about. His father almost always got that same kind of look whenever he thought about Jenny. The memories were happy ones, but the separation was difficult—and sad. Scott decided to hold his comments. "Thanks," he told Paul instead. "This makes one less assignment I have to worry about now."

"Half of it anyway," Paul returned. "You still have to write something about it, don't you?"

"Yeah, but you gave me that, too." Paul's eyebrow rose again, this time a definite question. "What you said about puzzles a minute ago. It sounded good to me."

Paul still looked a little confused, but Scott knew he would figure it out. He picked up a couple of cookies from the counter as he passed by and stuffed half of one into his mouth as he walked into his bedroom to get his history book. His dad was right; he did have a lot to do.  
  
---  
  
Rachel fingered her crystal necklace absently, staring at the term papers she had to grade still lying on the coffee table; although, her mind was nowhere in the vicinity of the confines of her apartment. Unable to collect any peace of mind so that she could judge the writings objectively, she clipped her pen to the top of the pages she had resting on her lap, got up, and laid them on the coffee table with the others. She went to the kitchen, gathered milk, chocolate, and saucepan, and proceeded to make some hot chocolate. She was not particularly hungry, but Rachel did have an acute affinity for chocolate.

The sun was setting, and through the slightly parted curtains of the front window, a beam of light bounced off the woman's necklace, sending a shower of color throughout the kitchen and front room. The piece of crystal always managed to gather its share of attention at times like this. It was not a lead crystal prism as one might expect from the present display of color. There were no facets or other visible means to split the beams of light into the color spectrum. It was perfectly smooth, much like an ordinary marble, but its exact color was difficult to discern.

At times it appeared to be blue, at others blue-white or green, and sometimes it held no color at all, remaining as clear as any fine crystal goblet. It was an anachronism, which made it that much more fascinating to Rachel, who had been given the pendant when she was a little girl. It had been a gift from her father, who had found the stone when he was a boy in Texas's Big Bend country. He used to make up stories about it, she remembered—stories about ancient Indians and their wanderings. They had always fascinated her, and she had not cared whether they were fact or fiction. She did miss him—and her mother, a teacher on a New Mexico reservation.

Rachel had learned quite a bit from the Indians themselves—their own history and legends. She sighed. They had not been judgmental or afraid to talk to her...to be with her...to answer her questions...to teach her. Rolling Thunder, the old medicine man... She shook her head, breaking off the reminiscence. That was the past now. She had more to think about than herself. She had Sara, and she had her students. How she did love being a teacher! Especially, she loved teaching history. Trying to get her students to understand the importance of learning was a challenge she had set forth in her teaching, and in certain cases she could even see the positive results of her endeavors.

However, from time to time, there were matters that got in the way of the goals she would set for herself. It was not unusual, of course, for such things to happen and could hardly be called a phenomenon. But right now, there was such a stumbling block in her path that she had stopped merely tripping over it and was bumping into what seemed a stone wall of unknown origin. She did not yet know what lay on the other side, but she knew what was on her side of it—or rather, who. Scott Hayden was practically an anachronism of his own among his peers. He was anything but what he appeared to be—other than being a teenager, of course. That was obvious.

What made him different from the other teenagers was what Rachel had yet to understand, although she had every intention of finding out. From the beginning, she had realized that he was different, but now there was something being added to the puzzle that was creating unnecessary difficulties for him. And the difficulty seemed to be stemming from something or someone foreign to him. Through her few talks with him, she sensed no hostility toward his father. The home would have been her first guess as being the main root of his problems, but she had put aside those thoughts quite some time ago. Besides, the negative feelings had initiated from gossip in the teachers' lounge. Rachel wondered why she ever let herself fall into that trap. She had her own mind, and she could form her own opinions without the aid of others' speculation.

It was true that Paul Forrester was a very famous freelance photographer and that he and his son traveled extensively. Most of the other teachers thought it horrendous that the man would pull a young boy around with him 'hither and yon,' so to speak. No stability for the child, they concluded. The man was obviously a bad influence with absolutely no regard for his son's welfare. Well, Rachel simply could not buy those conclusions. Based upon what she felt... No, based upon what she could actually see, those conclusions were set upon a faulty premise. Scott was shy and perhaps stayed to himself more than the average student. However, making new friends only to lose them shortly would deter anyone, young or old. She could see the same characteristics in children that had been in the same school with the same friends their whole life. Extroversion was not always a sign of a healthy, happy child—sometimes quite the contrary, in fact.

Rachel poured her hot chocolate into her cup and walked over to the window. Her thoughts remained on Scott. If things were as bad at home as the gossip implied, then why were Scott's grades so above average rather than low or borderline? Although shy, he could hardly be called sullen or belligerent. It was not his habit to act up in class, although his mind did tend to wander at times, she had found, and he was unusually polite for a boy of his age. If anything, that was the oddity.

There was also one more thing that placed Rachel on Scott's father's side, even though she had not yet met the man. It was the fact that he did take his son with him when he traveled. Even if there were no other relatives with which to leave the boy, most of the parents she had dealt with over the years who traveled extensively, left their child or children with someone, even if that someone was a virtual stranger, rather than have them to worry about while they conducted their business. In Forrester's line of work, if he did the same with Scott, the boy would most likely never see his father for more than a few days a year, if that much. At least, the way they were doing it, they were together. To Rachel, with no family of her own, that meant something. Perhaps there were other reasons that kept them moving, as well as the father's work, but whatever they might be Scott did not seem to be harboring any severe emotional effects or harsh feelings toward his father that she could sense.

Rachel drank the last of her chocolate. Whatever was bothering the boy had come about during the last few weeks. That pointed more to the school than to the home. She felt very strongly about that. However, she did want to talk to Paul Forrester. She knew she could learn a great deal from a simple, impromptu meeting with him and made up her mind that was just what she would do. She would not let another week pass and merely hope that Scott's problem would right itself, mainly because she simply did not believe it would. Rachel could not put it out of her mind that the boy was different somehow, in a very special sort of way. It aroused her curiosity even more, and she wondered if Paul Forrester would show a similar uniqueness.

A short-haired yellow and white cat walked across the couch back and over to Rachel. She sat down and meowed, reaching her paw out toward her mistress. Rachel smiled at her.

"Yes, Mandy. Of course I'll share my chocolate. Is Sara still sleeping?"

The cat straightened and meowed.

"Good," Rachel said. "She had a busy day, the sitter said." The cat meowed again. "Oh, yes, I know. You told me, too." She set her cup on the windowsill and picked up the cat, cradling her in her arms and stroking her head. "Have I ever ignored you, my pretty one?"

Mandy purred and leaned against Rachel's shoulder. The young woman hugged her friend, and for a few moments her thoughts returned to the memories of her own home and family. The crystal around her neck turned to more of a blue hue, which reflected her mood. The object had its own unusual knack for doing that. Perhaps, she thought, it had been one of the 'magic' stones of the ancient Indians about which her father had told her so many stories. There was so much historians did not know about the abilities of the ancients. There was so much they did not know or believe about the present. How could they, when they studied present mysteries the same way they studied the old?—staring down at it through a glass box.  
  
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Eric McKinnon had been doing his own share of analyzing events these days. He had narrowed his search down to this particular geographical area, which was quite an accomplishment, considering the dimensions of his task. The planet was not of any great size, it was true, but there were so many different beings dwelling on it. Then, of course, there were the primitive communications systems that made it overly difficult at times for him. Whether radio tower or telephone line or satellite, the interference was often distracting.

From the large area, he had narrowed it down to this particular grid, which contained Mason Corners. However, now that he was here, the energy surges that had brought him in this direction had abruptly ceased. That was a definite source of puzzlement and consternation to him. He used his spheres quite often to engineer himself out of one problem or another. He could not understand why his quarry would not be doing the same. After all, it took everything at one's disposal just to get along on this strange, hostile world.

Since locating the explorer directly through the use of the spheres had not produced complete success – and the numerous life-forms persisted in disrupting his calculations – he now believed, for a surety, that his best course of action was to locate the offspring of his fellow traveler instead. He had even devised a means he felt would best accomplish this.

As planned, he had obtained a position in the school in the athletic department. He had narrowed his suppositions down to a handful of students that presented the proper qualifications he had hypothesized would fit the profile. He had taken into account the report presented to him by the Council and the Earth years involved. The explorer's child was male and would be approximately fifteen years old. The students Eric had singled out to be the most likely candidates were all above average in intelligence and athletics. Most were extremely outgoing personalities, almost overbearing in their leadership, and Eric had come to learn during his time as the man McKinnon that this was a very well-admired trait by the dominant beings of the planet.

In fact, people with these characteristics possessed a large portion of the power in both business and government. Considering the boldness displayed by the former explorer he sought, it would not be wrong to assume that the offspring would also display the same – or even greater – boldness, taking into account the usual brazen and rash behavior of the natives themselves. Eric had known his fellow traveler in earlier times and remembered that such boldness had been channeled into the enthusiasm for exploration rather than dissident behavior. This thing he had done was so far removed from the logical explorer he had known back then. He remembered his fellow traveler having a much more demure personality, so consistent with their way of life. But, he reasoned, that part of him must have been altered during his first visit to the planet. Still, because of these memories, Eric could not discount one other boy that fit into the first of the three categories but not into the third.

Despite his athletic and intellectual abilities, this particular boy was quiet and unassuming, and purposefully kept himself out of the mainstream of activities. While this made him seem to be the least likely prospect of the first-selected group to Eric, there was still something – something intangible – that made the teenager very different from the others. It was that very feeling that made it impossible for Eric to dismiss the possibilities of his heritage.

His impatience growing – an emotion he had not yet been able to get the knack of controlling – along with his desire to return to his own kind and away from this backward little planet, Eric had generated an auxiliary plan of action. It was in its final stages of accomplishment and hopefully would be in place by the following Friday. The next basketball game to be played by the school, he had been told, was considered to be one of the most highly competitive of the school year. He had been warned of its emotional implications and that physical altercations between the two teams on the court were not uncommon because of the importance of the outcome of the game to the status of both schools. That setting, Eric surmised, could serve as a very revealing proving ground if he could get all the players for the bench that week that he desired.

It would, however, mean pulling Hayden from the scrimmage squad to play in the first string, but he foresaw little problem in that, considering the head coach's desire to have the boy there in the first place. Besides, Granger was due to leave Tuesday for a two-week athletic symposium in Phoenix, which was being hosted by the NBA. Eric, therefore, would hold the power of decision during that time concerning the team, and he fully intended to exercise it. Some of the more seasoned team members might have some objections to the action, but that would only prove to test the boy to a higher degree. What might cause the biggest problem would be the teenager himself, but Eric was determined to have Scott as a part of his little experiment. He knew he would be able to work it out. Much like the man whose identity he had taken, Eric was not short on confidence.

CHAPTER 6

Scott had drifted off to sleep in the middle of working his last algebra problem. It was only 7:30, but he had not taken any kind of break since lunch. He had been purposefully keeping his mind as preoccupied as he could so that he would not dwell on the events—especially the dreams—of the past week.

Paul called him for dinner, and when his son failed to come or even answer, he went to check on him. It was, after all, most unusual for the teenager not to be hungry. He found Scott in the bedroom, quite asleep, and decided not to disturb him for a while. What they were having to eat was not the gourmet special of the day; it would keep. He fixed a plate for himself and put Scott's portion back in the oven to stay warm. Sitting down at the table with a magazine, he ate and read a story that had caught his attention about a UFO sighting in Wyoming a few months back. The magazine was not that reputable, but it proved amusing reading just the same. The facts, if there had been any in the first place, had been sensationalized by the writer to include an array of conflicting information.

Paul wondered what the actual report had said and whether or not Fox might pay any attention to either it or this particular magazine write-up. He certainly wished the man would get on someone else's case for a change, as Scott would say. Then he gave a second thought about it and decided that wishing Fox off on anyone was unfair. He took it back. A knock at the door startled him, mainly because he had been thinking about Fox at the time. Even thoughts about the man made him jumpy. However, by the time he reached the door he had already ruled out the possibility that it might be the agent. In the first place, the knock was too light. In the second place, Fox would not have knocked; he would have broken in the door.

When he opened the door, a young woman greeted him.

"Mr. Forrester?"

"Yes," Paul confirmed. "Can I help you?"

"If you're Scott's father, very definitely," she replied.

"Yes, I am," Paul acknowledged quietly. "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you." She stepped in and offered him her hand. "My name's Rachel Donovan. I'm one of Scott's teachers at the high school."

"Yes, Scott's told me about you," Paul said smiling as he returned the handshake. "You're his history teacher."

Rachel had no trouble smiling back. Any misgivings she had had about her visit had dissolved with the firm handshake. At the moment, she felt no apprehension on the man's part concerning her presence.

Paul led her into the living room to the couch. "Please sit down," he told her then walked into the short hallway and shut the bedroom door. When he came back and sat down beside the woman on the couch, he explained. "Scott's had a long day, I'm afraid. He dropped off to sleep a little while ago."

"He did seem to be unusually tired this week," Rachel told him. "I couldn't help noticing. Scott's always pretty attentive in class, but he's been, well, rather distant the last few days." It was about as diplomatic as she could think of to say it. She watched the man's eyes for any change. There was, but not what she had prepared herself to expect. An automatic defensive gesture of some type was what she usually received in one-on-one situations like this one. Sometimes there would even be anger at any insinuation of a student's adverse behavior in the classroom. She saw no anger in the man's eyes, and she neither saw nor felt even the slightest note of defensiveness. Instead, she saw a touch of sadness.

"He hasn't been sleeping very well," Paul said quite openly. He was still not very good at subterfuge in a conversation, especially without Scott to help him along. He didn't like being dishonest anyway. It was enough that they had to bend information in order to avoid Fox and the FSA. He certainly did not like twisting the truth when dealing with Scott's teachers. His son's education was very important to him.

"That's what he told me when I asked him about it," Rachel commented. "Do you know why? Is it something at school perhaps?" She still opted for diplomacy for the time being.

"I'm not sure," Paul told her honestly. "We talked about it last night. I knew that something wasn't going right, but I didn't want to push him into telling me. I wasn't even sure how to approach him about it. But yesterday when he came in, he was very upset. He told me he had spent the afternoon running, but it hadn't helped. That's when I started asking for some answers."

"But you say you're still not sure about what's been bothering him." Rachel was hoping the man would not stop his explanation now. He was being unusually candid.

Paul shook his head. "He's been having nightmares since last weekend. A couple of them were very upsetting to him. He told me the dreams—what he could remember of them. It seems he just can't get them out of his mind. It's why he hasn't been able to sleep well. I don't know what caused them, though." He sighed and leaned back against the couch. "Things have actually been pretty quiet for us the past few months, especially here in Mason Corners." He shook his head again and looked at the young woman. "I really don't understand why he's having them now."

"Maybe it is something that's happening at school," Rachel offered.

Paul shook his head again. "Not that he's told me. He's talked about the new friends he has here and his teachers." He thought for a moment, feeling a prod from his memory concerning one of his and Scott's recent conversations.

Rachel noticed the change in his face. "Something?"

"Scott has said a few things about the new coach at the school," Paul told her. "He has quite a temper according to what Scott's said about him."

"Coach McKinnon," Rachel cited. "Maybe Scott had a run-in with him."

Paul had to think about the term the woman was using, then figured it had to mean trouble of some kind. "No," he said. "Scott would have said something if anything had happened."

"You sound very sure of that," Rachel smiled, not meaning to let her skepticism show so blatantly. However, the man didn't seem to hear it that way.

"I am," he returned, quite undaunted. "Scott would have told me."

The statement sounded far from being any kind of parental boast. What Rachel heard was a simple statement of fact on his part, and somehow she didn't believe it was a naive one, "It sounds as if you have a good relationship with your son."

Paul's expression altered; a look Scott would have recognized as cautionary. Too often he took things at face value and generalized them too broadly. "Is there some reason that we shouldn't?" he asked almost hesitantly.

Rachel found she could not stifle a laugh. The totally innocent tone had pushed her a little off balance. "No, Mr. Forrester, I don't see that there should be. What I meant to say is that it's a little unusual to find a teenager who's as open with his parents as you tell me Scott is with you. In homes with children Scott's age, I'm afraid you see more of a fight for independence than attempts at communication—much less having that communication."

Paul still felt a little uneasy. He couldn't get used to people being so suspicious about things that were different. He tried to explain away some of what the young woman seemed to perceive as 'unusual'. "I care very much for my son, and he knows that. We have to travel so much that a lot of times all we have is each other. Scott and I haven't been together very long, but we've learned to be friends and to talk about things."

Rachel smiled again. "I like your attitude about your son, Mr. Forrester. There are some parents I've been acquainted with who could use some lessons on the subject."

Paul wasn't sure how to respond to the compliment, but he didn't have to because Scott walked into the room where they were. He looked a little groggy from his nap, but became more alert immediately when he saw his history teacher sitting on the couch beside his dad.

"Mrs. Donovan," he started, his curiosity instantly on edge. "What are you doing here?" Then thinking the question might have sounded a bit tart, he added, "On a Saturday, I mean."

The woman smiled at him, trying to put the boy at ease from the tension she knew she had created by her unexpected appearance. "I just came for a short visit with you and your father, Scott. I often visit with my students at their homes."

"Oh," Scott said looking notably relieved. "I thought maybe I'd done a bad job on that last test or something." He smiled back a bit shyly and sat down on the arm of the couch with one knee resting on the couch seat cushion next to his father.

Rachel added another mental check in her column favoring Forrester. The boy could have sat down in either of the two other chairs around the coffee table. Instead, he had chosen to sit by his father. Then Paul placed another check there by telling Scott firsthand why she had really come to see them.

"Scott, Mrs. Donovan's been concerned about you. She was afraid something might have happened that upset you."

Scott shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing's happened." He looked from one to the other. "Really," he insisted, this time a bit more convincing than he had earlier to his teacher after class Friday. "Dad and I talked about it last night. I'll be OK. Just like I told you, Mrs. Donovan, I just needed a little rest; that's all."

"I'm sure," Rachel conceded to his remarks politely, then she returned to Paul, "You said a moment ago that the two of you hadn't been together very long."

"Yes," Paul returned. "Scott's mother and I were separated for a long time."

Rachel's expression saddened a bit. Scott had never mentioned his mother, and she had assumed, along with the other teachers, that she had died. "Circumstances sometimes make being together difficult. It happens. I'm sorry."

Paul was going to take what the woman said at face value. After all it did fit their particular situation. However, Scott knew what she was referring to because he had run the course too many times already. It was one reason he avoided talking about it.

"Oh, my mom and dad aren't divorced," Scott told her. "Mom's just not with us right now; that's all."

Paul noted the discomfort in Scott's voice. He could also sense it. He did not have to be in physical contact with his son to know the way he sometimes did with other people. "My work took me away from Jenny and Scott for several years," he added to the boy's explanation, understanding now himself what the young woman had innocently implied. "I'm afraid my...occupation...separated us again shortly after I got back."

Scott thought his dad did pretty well with that one, even though he was searching for the words to express it the right way. Scott figured that if his dad could just learn to use his imagination and fabricate a little better, they would not have as many problems as they did sometimes. But, on the other hand, he kind of liked the idea that lying was so difficult for the man. Scott certainly could not accuse him of being a bad example to him. If anything, in Paul's case, it was usually the other way around, when Scott did not take the care to curb impulsive actions or words. "Things have been kind of hectic for us the last year or so. We've had to move around quite a bit," Scott offered, trying to continue the honesty that his father had been maintaining with the woman. His own association with her at school told him she warranted that consideration. Scott liked her.

"We do intend to be together just as soon as we can. It's something we all want," Paul concluded.

"Then I certainly wish you luck," Rachel said. "I'm sure it's very hard on the both of you."

"We make out OK," Scott put in quickly, laying his hand on his father's shoulder. He definitely wanted the conversation to switch gears.

Rachel sensed the uneasiness of both, and her feelings told her it was not due to their personal relationship, either with each other or with Scott's mother. There was something else in the background. If she just had enough time or... Her mind took a sudden detour. A barrage of new feelings and sensations crowded her, pulling her away from her present situation. She felt cold.

Scott straightened, his grip on his father's shoulder increasing measurably. "Mrs. Donovan?" he asked, concerned at his teacher's sudden loss of color and distant expression. "Are you all right?" When she did not acknowledge him, he really did become uneasy. "Dad?"

Paul had noted the change from more than a visible standpoint. He laid his hand gently on Rachel's arm that rested in her lap. What he felt confused him, and his eyebrow arched slightly. Why had he not sensed the difference that he was experiencing now so strongly? It should have been obvious when they first met. His hand tightened around her small arm unconsciously. The cold Rachel was experiencing, he was now experiencing; however, he could not focus on the source of the disturbance.

The increased grip on her arm, brought Rachel back to her immediate surroundings with a snap, and the link Paul had gained broke just as sharply; however, he could still feel that she had been shaken by whatever had pulled her away from them for those few moments.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, seeing the concerned faces of both Paul and Scott. "I got a little dizzy there for a minute." Her breathing had increased so that she sounded a bit out of breath when she spoke. She forced a smile. "I guess I'm a little tired myself."

"Would you like some water?" Scott offered, his voice displaying his concern.

She shook her head, "No, no thank you, Scott. I'm fine now." Her look turned to Paul. He still had hold of her arm and had not taken his eyes from her. "I'm all right, Mr. Forrester. Really," she insisted, meeting his gaze. The stare made her uneasy, but for quite a different reason than the gaze of other men. His eyes seemed to search beyond the obvious, and his touch carried a sensation all its own that it had not held previously. She closed her thoughts against him, not even knowing the reason why she should take such a precaution. Paul released her and exchanged a brief glance with Scott before looking back at their visitor.

All three of them were more than a little confused and reluctant now to renew any conversation. Rachel's hand went to her pendant. The touch of it calmed her and allowed her to centralize her thoughts and return them to a positive vein for the moment.

"I think it's about time for me to leave," she told the two. "I only meant to drop by for a few minutes to see how Scott was, and if there was anything I might be able to do to help." She gave a slight shrug to back the innocent intentions of her words. She picked up her purse from the floor beside her and stood up. Paul and Scott stood up with her.

"I thank you for being concerned," Paul told her. "I'm glad to know that my son has someone at the school he can go to."

Rachel turned her look to Scott. "I hope you feel that you can come to me, Scott. And it doesn't have to be about history."

Scott returned her a shy smile. "Yes, ma'am," he said. Although the words were a bit on the noncommittal side, he really did not hold the usual reservations concerning this young woman.

"Mr. Forrester." Rachel held out her hand in good-bye, and Paul accepted it. Paul sensed something again when they touched this time, but he suppressed his reaction. He and Scott escorted her to the door, and after she had gone, he leaned against the wall for a moment, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Dad?" Scott asked, noting his father's expression. "What happened?"

Paul frowned, looking up at Scott. "I'm not sure." Then he straightened and put his hand on his son's shoulder. "But I can tell you that you have a very unique history teacher."

Scott matched his father's frown at the comment because it only confused him further, but it softened into a smile when Paul's did. The man moved his hand over and around Scott's neck and walked him back toward the kitchen.

"You haven't had dinner," he told him, totally changing the course of the conversation.

"You hardly have to remind me," Scott returned, putting a hand over his growling stomach. "I'm starving."

Paul laughed. "I figured as much. Your dinner's in the oven. Get yourself some milk, and I'll get the rest."

"No arguments from me," Scott said quite cheerfully now. He was wide awake, and as he had said, very hungry.

CHAPTER 7

K. C. Hendricks High School was located approximately 120 miles away from Mason Corners. The distance had its advantages and disadvantages. It was a long haul for the visiting team and spectators from either school's standpoint, but that same distance served as a good deterrent to activities outside school functions. Rivalry between the two high schools—decades old—was high-pitched and oftentimes explosive. Whatever had initiated the intense competition had long been forgotten over the years, but it had been replaced by other incidents as the years proceeded, and each new incident took its place as top grievance. The coaches had a tendency to use the rivalry as a focal point in readying their respective teams for the games played, and sometimes strategy leaned more toward direct physical contact than well-laid game plans for building a score.

While the Mason Corners Eagles were sometimes allowed to engage their rivals in the practice of one-on-one maneuvers during the game, the Hendricks Bobcats were openly encouraged to do so, even the act of two-on-one, at their own discretion. Most of the Eagles' players were well acquainted with the routine and accepted the fact, but the newer members had only their teammates' words of caution to ready themselves. However, there were some things that made words inadequate preparation for reality, and Scott was among those least prepared mentally for the Mason Corners/Hendricks game—especially on the Mason Corners' home court.

Scott had been talked into joining the squad under a certain amount of duress, mainly from his fellow teammates on the scrimmage team. They figured if one of them could move up and do well, then the rest of them stood a chance for the same kind of mobility, and Scott was their best bet to break the barrier. Scott figured, however, that he would not be doing very much actual playing time, since the team already had four top substitutes with seniority over him. Only heavy injuries would put him in the game for any length of time, and if the game took that course, he was not too sure he wanted to be on the court at all anyway.

It was not that he could not handle himself, so to speak, in a tight spot. That was hardly the situation. In truth, he was much more accustomed to battling against adults than teenagers—and with a great deal more at stake than game points. Because of those stakes, he did not like the idea of risking an injury that could slow him down under more urgent circumstances, and, too, he had no desire to be the cause of someone else being injured. It was not his nature, and, since being with his father, he had begun to learn why fierce competition and power over others had always been distasteful to him.

Many psychologists and sociologists tended to maintain that heredity did not enter into those characteristics as much as learning. Cultural influences appeared to be strong factors as well. Scott figured that was logical, but such strong emphasis on the learning factor pulled up a few questions on his part. What about the children of a society that had had total planetary peace for generations? He was beginning to feel that cultural evolution was another matter altogether, and one the scientists would have to experience another thousand years or so before they could draw more accurate conclusions on the subject. Something else bothered him a little. Why did such questions come into his mind and concern him in the first place? That kind of thing was for graduate students and researchers, not high school sophomores.  
  
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For a Thursday night, the gym was more heavily populated than usual, especially considering how far the supporters of the visiting team had had to travel to see the game. But the heavy rivalry prevalent between the two high schools had done a great deal to boost attendance on both sides.

Scott surveyed the bleachers as he walked onto the edge of the basketball court with the other players. He picked out his dad, sitting at the far end of the Eagles' side of the gym. Paul tossed him a smile, and Scott returned it, taking a deep breath to settle his heart. At the moment, he really wished he had a little more of his father's composure in a pressure situation like this one. What Scott did not know was that Paul's heart was beating just as fast as his own right then, even though his expression showed nothing other than its usual calm.

Coach McKinnon gathered the boys around him for a few final instructions and a bit of extra encouragement before the game, then the buzzer sounded, and the referee blew his whistle. The starting players ran onto the court to begin, and the rest of the team, including Scott, took their places on the bench.

The game started at a rather slow pace, the Eagles trying for an early lead in the hopes of eroding the confidence of the other team. However, things were not slow for long. The Bobcats had been given explicit instructions to allow their opponents enough room during the first quarter to demonstrate their abilities in their respective positions so that the key players could be pinpointed. Carrington, the Bobcat coach, had one very outstanding quality—or problem, depending upon a person's viewpoint. It concerned his vocabulary. The word "lose" had at one point been expunged from his personal dictionary, and his particular way of looking at the game itself and how it should be played had been carefully instilled into his squad. Just after the second quarter began, he gave a discrete signal to his starting center, and the action of the following plays began to pick up measurably.

The Eagles cheering section roared indignation as Carey Anderson, one of Mason Corners' better guards, fell prey to a well-timed foul by Hendricks. He hit the back wall, bounced hard, fell, and did not get back up. Scott shook his head. He could feel the intense arrival of the storm that was just starting and would soon explode over their heads. The Bobcats continued in their new stride and whirled into a run of plays that made them appear to be more of a demolition squad than a basketball team. By halftime, two more of the Eagles had been hit hard through feigned interceptions or blatant fouls. They were still playing at Coach McKinnon's insistence, but only at about half capacity. A third, Carl, the team's starting center, had suffered a possible knee sprain. When the buzzer ending the first half sounded, the Eagles were not only behind by five points, but short four of their starting string, including the center.

In the stands, Rachel sat watching the proceedings more calmly than those around her. It was her third year at Mason Corners, and it seemed that although the players changed, the methods of strategy remained constant. However, Coach McKinnon's approach was definitely different than Coach Granger's. McKinnon pushed harder and kept his boys in for longer periods—the injured ones unjustifiably long. What was it that he was trying to prove? she wondered.

The disconcerting feelings, which persistently surrounded the man, hung even more ominously for Rachel. A chill was now creeping up and folding around her. She watched as the second half was about to begin and saw that McKinnon was talking to James Bradley and Scott Hayden. James had played against Hendricks before. He was a good forward and could probably give as much or more back of what the Bobcats had been dishing out.

Scott, on the other hand, was a newcomer to the Hendricks strategy, and his face showed the uncertainty he was feeling. And the uncertainty was excusable. When he walked onto the court, it was as the Eagle's replacement center. Rachel glanced in Paul Forrester's direction. His face held concern, almost mirroring Scott's expression. She turned away from the man reluctantly as his attention became more fixed on the game—or rather, on Scott—and returned her eyes to the game as well.  
  
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James was almost as surprised as Scott at Coach McKinnon's decision to place him in the game in the center position, but he also knew that it was McKinnon's doing with no suggestion or encouragement coming from his friend. He stepped up behind Scott as the referees were still positioning themselves.

"Take it easy, Scott. Don't let these guys shake you up."

Scott turned back to look at his teammate, who gave him a smile and a thumbs up for luck. Scott returned both gestures and then walked to mid court where the referee and the Bobcat center now waited.

The referee balanced the ball in one hand ready to toss it for the two team centers who poised to make the jump. For the first time Scott met his new opponent eye-to-eye. The Hendricks center cracked a slight smile.

"You can forget about any glory, pal. Just stay out of the way or go out in pieces."

The statement, quite an unveiled threat, almost threw Scott off guard, but he had heard plenty of threats before and had learned by now to save his worrying for after the fact. Agonizing about it beforehand only slowed one down, and that was the last thing he needed right now. However, the words did cause a new rush of adrenaline, and he used it in his favor. When the referee blew his whistle, he executed a more strategically placed jump for the ball than his opponent did and spiked it into the direction of an Eagles forward. The Bobcat center threw him an acid look, which he read all too well, but he turned into the line of play and readied for the opportunity to lay his hands on the ball again.

The Hendricks center had insinuated that he might make an attempt to grab for glory in his newly acquired status, but Scott's thoughts were running along quite another vein. He still had no desire to call undue attention to himself, but he did feel the need for a bit of retribution for his injured teammates. However, it was retribution in the form of points, not further injuries. Twice he was able to gain possession of the ball by only a breath's distance from a Bobcat player, and both times he scored from the two-three zone. Somehow managing to avoid all of Hendricks' attempts to put him down, he put a total of fifteen points on the board for Mason Corners during the next five minutes of play.

James was called for traveling and then lost a point when the ball bounced off the ring into the hands of his opponent, who took it across the court and drove it home for a three-point score for Hendricks.

Daniel, the other forward, took the ball and pitched off to Tommy, one of the Eagles' better shooting guards. However, Tommy found no immediate opening and passed to his fellow guard, Cameron. Cameron crossed to the inside, rotated, and passed to James who made a base-line jump and shot. This time the point was made. The rebound was picked up by a Hendricks forward, but when the Bobcats tried for their own goal, Tommy jumped and used his fingertips to pop the ball away from his opponent as he was throwing toward the basket. Daniel caught it and carried it across court. He passed to Scott who was clear at the three-point area in the place the others knew to be his best spot for shooting.

In another second, Scott had a Hendricks guard in his face trying to force him to drive. Scott refused to be intimidated, jumped, and sank another basket for the three points. After the ball started back down the court, Scott's guard nudged him just hard enough during the run to overbalance him. Scott picked himself up from the floor, a look of disgust on his face. He caught James shaking his head at him and had to smile. Things were not about to get any better.

Eric was beginning to watch Scott more carefully now. The teenager was showing more potential than he had anticipated. Perhaps the least likely was the most likely prospect in his experiment after all. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and placed his concentration on his new center.

Scott watched Daniel pull off another interception near the Eagles' end of the court, and, in another moment, the boy passed it to him. Once again in possession of the ball, Scott took it back down court. He pivoted with the intention of either passing it or trying for a basket from his location, depending upon the next movement of the boy guarding him; however, something distracted him, something entirely apart from the game itself. It was a feeling—strange, yet at the same time familiar. He glanced only briefly into the crowd, in the general direction of his father, his initial reaction being that Fox had made another one of his untimely appearances.

Scott, for a rookie to the Mason Corners squad as the Bobcats had been led to believe, had turned out to be an unexpected ringer to the Hendricks coach, as well as his players. Once the new center had started racking up points, Coach Carrington had made it very clear to his boys to take him out of the game at the first opportunity. As it turned out, Scott's break in concentration on the play was all the opening the Hendricks guard blocking him needed to carry out his coach's instructions. He used the moment of the unknown, but most welcomed, distraction to execute an interception, bouncing Scott hard off his hip as he rotated with the ball in his hand. Scott went down as if he had been hit by a linebacker.

Whatever had pulled his mind from the game had left him wide open to the attack, all physical defenses down. Things were complicated further when he landed under the feet of a second Hendricks player. He threw up a hand to keep from taking a hit in the face, and the boy above him allowed the action to trip him. He fell across the already downed player. As a result, Scott's own fall, along with the weight of the other player plummeting on top of him, took his breath away so suddenly and completely that it came very close to making him lose consciousness. The gym ceiling spun, and for a moment the walls seemed to close in around him. Then Scott realized that his teammates were crowding around him. The Bobcat guard was pulled to his feet and taken out of the way by the referee.

"Sorry, man," the kid called over the bustle, but Scott was not gullible enough to believe him.

"Scott?" a voice that he recognized cut through the confusion. It was James, and Scott finally managed to pull the face into focus. "You OK?" the boy asked him.

Scott took a couple of deep breaths to try to replace the air that had been forced from him and pushed himself up on his elbows. "Yeah," he answered, but it did not come out too well, considering how badly he flinched when he had to move his rib cage. But his reply was not actually a lie because he really did not know yet if there was any significant damage. His head was still spinning too much to let him figure out whether there was an injury or if it was just the shock of the incident itself.

"Think you can get up?" James asked, but before Scott could reply, Coach McKinnon came into his line of vision.

"Have we got a problem here, Hayden?" he asked, no real emotion evident in the question.

Scott shook his head, more to clear it than to answer the man, but after looking up at his coach—into his eyes—he did reply, "No, sir. I'm OK. I'll have my breath back in a minute."

James looked from his coach back to his fallen friend. "Scott," he started, but Scott held out his hand to him to help him up.

"Just get me up off the floor, will you please?" Scott beseeched.

James frowned, looking up and around to the other boys. There were others besides him whose expressions relayed the same message. Hayden's decision was questionable. However, he took Scott's hand, and a couple of the boys helped by pulling Scott up by the shoulders to get him standing. Once on his feet, he shook his head again to try to counter the dizziness.

McKinnon slapped him on the back, "That's the way to do it, Hayden. You'll be fine." He signaled for the others to return to their positions on the court. "Let's get back to it," he told them. "And watch these guys!"

James was reluctant to turn loose of Scott. "Are you sure you don't want to sit this out a while?"

Scott shook his head. "No. I'm fine. The guy just caught me in the wrong place."

"Yeah, well," James said as he tightened his grip on Scott's shoulder, "just see to it that you don't get tagged like that again." Scott nodded, and James returned to his position.

Just before the referee whistled to restart the game, Scott glanced in the direction of his dad. His father's face showed a great deal of concern, but there was nothing Scott could do about that right now. Since he did not see the familiar look of urgency in his father's face that told him they were in danger from the government, he knew it was all right to continue what he was doing. However, he definitely wished he knew what had distracted him a few minutes ago. He was quite sure that he did not want it happening a second time. The whistle sounded, Scott took his two allotted free throws, and the game soon returned to its former pace.

James pulled off a wing jump shot, and the Bobcats racked up six more points of their own. The next point they tried, their center took a pass, turned around for a jump shot, but it bounced off the ring and into Cameron's hands. The Eagles guard took the ball across court again and bounced it low between the legs of the player between him and James. James rotated and made a jump for the basket. The man guarding him reached up, brazenly took hold of his forearms, and pulled him down mid jump. James met the floor with more force than if he had merely fallen. The ball bounced out of bounds. He got a free throw for the foul, but it didn't help his ego or the new bruises.

Next, one of the Bobcat forwards chanced a long pass from center court to his teammate, who had managed to gain a brief clearing near their basket. Scott, a few feet from the forward's right, dodged around his guard and made an attempt at an interception. Luck rewarded him with the ball, and he pivoted to reverse his stride in the direction of the Eagle's basket. But the forward whose play Scott had thwarted decided to vent his anger at the obvious loss of a point. When Scott turned, the first step was as far as he got before he collided with his second deliberate foul of the evening. The forward moved as if he were going to reach to try to regain the ball. His hands never touched it. He locked his right hand over his left wrist and swung up and across with his forearm.

Scott, who had just made the catch, barely had the ball back down to shoulder level. When the forward's arm made connection with the ball, it was slammed back hard into Scott's face. The concussion took him by surprise, and the force knocked him off his feet. The entire chain of events, from the Hendricks pass to Scott's unprecedented return to the floor, was a matter of seconds, too fast for anyone to see what had actually happened. That included the referees, none of which had been close enough to the incident to make an accurate judgment call on the foul. Therefore, it was judged as accidental and probably quite unavoidable under the circumstances of the play. The forward had known exactly how to hide his revenge tactic. He walked away toward his own team as a timeout was called until damages, if any, could be determined on the downed player.

 

It was all Paul could do to stay where he was, helpless to give any assistance to his son. Along with everything else right then, Scott did not need further embarrassment. Paul realized he had to leave the matter to the team's coach, even though McKinnon did not seem to be extremely concerned over anything except perhaps lost points. Scott was bleeding, which appeared to cause a certain amount of concern from some of his teammates anyway. Paul wished Scott was old enough to have developed more of his telepathic powers. But he was still just too young to transfer or receive anything other than vague feelings. The abstract had to come first, though, Paul knew that. Precise, concrete communication was still in Scott's future by several years.

 

The spinning was back. Scott felt like the world had just done a somersault and left him behind. There was also more pain this time. His nose felt like it was broken, but after a moment, he was able to feel and see that it was intact and only badly bruised. However, although not broken, it was bleeding, and heavily enough so that just his hand could not stop it. He sensed his teammates around him again, and then a cloth across his nose and mouth. Someone pushed his head back.

"Scott?" he heard James' voice again. "Scott? Doggone it! Are you OK or aren't you?"

Scott tried to locate the position of the voice and looked in that direction. His eyes showed some pain but mostly disgust. He took the cloth from whoever had been holding it and wiped it across his mouth. It had been cut and was doing a good deal of bleeding on its own. "I think I know now how eagles got to be an endangered species," he quipped.

James cracked a slight smile. "He's all right," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, and then helped Pablo Hernandez get Scott back on his feet. This time, however, James and Pablo took Scott to the bench.

Coach McKinnon tried to appear concerned over the situation as he felt he should under the circumstances, but, at the same time, he did not wish his experiment to be cut as short with Scott as it had been with two of his other prospects earlier in the game. "How is it, Hayden?"

Scott nodded that he was all right, for the most part anyway, but did not dare remove the cloth as yet. James was not as ready as his friend was to let the coach think things were fine. Scott was giddy and needed to be benched for a while. The boys made sure he was seated and then released him.

"He's pretty shaken, Coach," James said. "I don't think he can stand up by himself, much less play right now."

McKinnon nodded. "Sit him down, then. We'll see after a few minutes."

James and Daniel exchanged glances, then James looked down at Scott. "Take it easy."

Scott nodded and waved the two of them back to the court.

 

In the stands, Rachel was trying to get her heartbeat back to normal. The so-called accidental foul was just another name for poor sportsmanship in this case. Emotionally, she had felt the blow, and Scott had taken it quite calmly considering the fervor built up so far during the game. From another angle, because of Scott's passive reaction to the several attempts and two direct hits by the opposition, his teammates had more or less followed his lead, and undue altercations had been avoided. Rachel took another look in Paul's direction. The man looked as if he were on edge, and with good reason. His son was taking quite a pounding, along with several of the other players. It was readily apparent that he was not accustomed to the kind of violence that this particular high school game was presenting—especially that part aimed at his son.

Rachel looked back toward the Eagles' bench. Her preoccupation with her own thoughts and Paul had taken her mind from the game for several minutes of play. It was a new buzz of excitement through the crowd that returned her to the game. She scanned the group of players; Scott was no longer among the ones on the bench. Looking for the paramedic who was on call for the evening, she thought she might see Scott with him. Then Coach McKinnon sidestepped slightly from where he had been standing, and it was then that the teenager came back into view. McKinnon was discussing something with the boy, and it appeared to be rather one-sided—all McKinnon.

After a few moments, Scott tossed the bloodied cloth aside and returned to the court, switching places with the center, Ben Darwin, who only minutes before had been sent in to replace him. Ben's face showed his disappointment and a little confusion as well. Rachel echoed Ben's confusion, stunned at McKinnon's actions. She sincerely doubted Scott's ability to return to the game so soon and wondered why McKinnon would take such a chance with him when he had other reserve players who had yet to see any playing time. She watched Ben as he sat down. The boy beside him spoke to him, and he shrugged.

 

Out on the court, James and Pablo each tried to get Scott's attention when McKinnon had his eyes in someone else's direction. Scott, however, was still experiencing somewhat of a dazed state. The bleeding had barely stopped. He figured that another bump was all it would take to start the flow all over again. James' brows furrowed—a touch of anger beginning to rise for someone other than the Hendricks' players—their own assistant coach.

Tommy Galloway, an Eagles guard, was the next to get tagged by the opposition's line of strategy. He caught a lay-up and turned to shoot. A Hendricks forward leaned in and knocked him in the face as he threw toward the basket. He fell backward and right into Daniel. Daniel went down with him but somehow managed to escape injury other than a few bruises. Tommy toppled and almost somersaulted over Daniel, though, and pulled a calf muscle in the process. It was close to a hamstring injury, and the paramedic and the manager had to carry him off the court.

Ben came back in as the new guard. He passed Scott on his way into position for a free throw in Tommy's place for the foul. Scott's left eye was getting pretty blue from the banging his nose had taken, and he still did not look as alert as he should have been to be on the court. Ben met James' eyes, and James shook his head. The ball went to Ben, the point was made, and the action began again. The buzzer sounded the end of the quarter, and everyone had a chance to rest for a few minutes.

Scott bent over and rested his hands against his thighs as he tried to even his breathing. At this point he wanted very much just to be able to lie down so that he could close his eyes. He knew he would only lose his balance if he closed them now. Feeling a hand on his back, he looked up. It was James.

"You're crazy, Hayden, you know that? Getting yourself put back into the game after that last hit you took."

Scott just shook his head and looked down again to fight against the dizziness. "Just how stupid do I look anyway?" he said, answering the question with a question.

"I can tell you what you look like, Buddy, but it doesn't live on this planet."

To James' surprise, Scott laughed. He couldn't help it; his head hurt too much to put some kind of clever return to the comment. Besides, James was half right—quite innocently, of course.

"You're punchy," James surmised.

Scott took a deep breath, and nodded rather than giving his friend a verbal reply.

"Let me talk to Conway," James said, referring to the team's manager. "Maybe he can get McKinnon to pull you." The teenager knew now that it had not been Scott's idea to return to the game, but the new coach's decision.

Scott shook his head. "Won't do any good," he told him, then looked up. "Just let the man have his way, and don't make trouble for yourself. I'm OK."

The whistle, signaling the players to get ready to start the game again, sounded, and Scott straightened. The action was almost too fast because it set his head reeling for a moment. He felt James' strong grip just above his elbow.

"Sure you are," James retorted to Scott's last affirmation of his well-being.

The referee motioned for the players to position themselves, and as James released Scott, Scott threw him a verbal tip. "Better make sure you and the other guys give me as much room as you do the Bobcats, or I might just run a replay of Tommy's stunt over one of you myself." His voice held a teasing tone, but James knew better. Right now, they were all more than ready to hear the Klaxon that would end this game.

Hendricks pulled off a five-man passing sequence in a double figure-eight pattern. The final outside pass went to their best shooter, and he sank a three pointer. From the rebound, the Eagles lost the ball almost immediately, recklessly telegraphing a pass. Cameron found himself forced back by the forward he was guarding, and the forward rotated around for an easy jump shot when he dodged away to prevent a foul.

Scott took the rebound and threw a bounce pass to Ben, who got rid of the ball just before a Hendricks player hit him and bounced him to the floor as if he had been made of rubber himself. James took the pass and returned the ball to Scott who popped an unusually lucky throw over the head of his guard. The ball arched and fell through the hoop as if it had been guided. Three more points lit the scoreboard. If he had been in a better frame of mind, the feat might have caused him to wonder a little. As it was, Luck received his thanks, and two plays later, he was able to sink another three-pointer for the Eagles. It was as if he had finally gotten his second wind and figured it was long overdue.

Ben was the next one fouled. The forward he was guarding literally cleared him out of the way by turning and stepping back sharply as he shot. Bodies collided, and Ben bounced off and to the floor. It only winded him, and he was up and running by the next play.

James threw a pass across court. Scott dodged his guard and caught the ball on his knees. He jumped up, rotated, and drove for a shot, succeeding in bringing in a deuce. Following the rebound and the trip across court, Ben could not resist the temptation for a moment of retribution. When the Bobcat forward he was guarding caught the bounce pass from his teammate and turned toward the basket, Ben hit him as he jumped to shoot. Ben accepted the personal foul call without a word but found he did not like the feeling it gave him to know it had been intentional. The disapproving looks he received from James and Daniel did not help much. Scott's expressed more disappointment than disapproval. Cameron just shrugged when he looked in his direction during the free throw.

With two minutes left on the clock, James and Scott added four more points on their score, bringing the two teams even at seventy-four. Cameron maneuvered a clear interception before Hendricks could score another point and passed to Scott who headed straight for the three-point position again where his shot percentage was always the best. However, Hendricks was all too well aware of the Eagles center's ability by now and had no intention of giving him the chance to make the points. Scott found himself overloaded, with two opponents concentrating on him. He passed to Ben, who had no more luck at a clear shot at the basket than had Scott.

During the next series of passes, Scott ended up running his part of the pass chain to the court's back perimeter. It placed him extremely close to the gym wall, but he was too involved with the current play sequence to alter the precarious position into which the Bobcats had maneuvered him. Up until now he had been able to catch the ball and then get it out of his hands again and to a teammate before one of the Bobcats could try another one of their kamikaze runs.

But the next time the ball was thrown his way, obviously in the hopes that he would be able to pull off another two- or three-point throw in the seconds they had left and break the tie, his back was literally to the wall. He was standing barely inside the court's perimeter. James could have brained Daniel for throwing Scott that pass and shot him a look telling him so. Daniel, who had also been too preoccupied to notice what the Bobcats were doing, threw James an expression that told the other boy that there was nothing that could be done about it now.

Scott actually looked like he was going to make a try for the point, then, for some reason, he hesitated mid stride.

"Scott!" Cameron yelled. "Throw it!"

"Get rid of it!" James yelled out more pointedly.

Scott had been about to try for a throw at the basket. There was none of his teammates in the open enough to receive a pass, and the Bobcats had overloaded him once more—two guards on him. Then he felt it again—the strange, yet familiar touch at the edge of his mind. This time he recognized the feeling but could not for the life of him figure why his dad would attempt such blatant interference of that nature. The recognition, along with the total disbelief, caused him to hesitate and pull back in his movement to make the throw.

Whether the two Bobcat players around Scott had meant to make their move before or after the ball had left the Eagle center's hands was irrelevant. The maneuver was set up and ready and Scott's pull back only made it easier. The first of the two players made a dive, as if going to try for an interception, and stumbled, bumping his teammate so that both collided with Scott, who naturally ended up catching the worst of it.

He experienced the momentum created by both bodies against his own, and, since each of the players carried a good twenty to thirty pounds above his own weight, the force threw him hard against the back wall. He bounced, hitting not only his back, but his head, and landed face down on the gym floor. This time he was more than a little stunned. He heard the referee's whistle, although it was slight compared to the ringing in his ears. He knew he heard some sort of scuffle nearby and then more whistles sounded. He tried to get up.

 

Rachel had found this last half of the game hard to contend with passively. It was her nature to meet adversity, both mental and physical, in a firm, yet peaceful manner, but there were times when that was simply not possible. She clenched her fists, wishing she had both coaches by their collars. She wanted to shake them both—hard.

"Stay down," she told the boy in her mind, then realized Scott's adrenaline level was high and probably the only thing keeping him going.

 

That was very much the case. Scott had a couple of badly bruised ribs, and the nosebleed had begun again after the last hit. The pounding his head had taken, although not seriously damaging, was painful. Scott managed to make it up on one elbow, but he was disoriented and felt closed in. It was difficult to breathe. He shook his head and tried to push himself up with his hands. There seemed to be a fight going on very near him. However, the attempt to right himself proved futile. Feelings became detached, and his muscles refused to hold him. He became very sleepy—uncontrollably sleepy—and it seemed he had no way to fight against it. He sank down again, all senses deadened to what was happening around him.

 

Seeing the boy collapse, Rachel immediately started to make her way to Paul. It was not easy because the scuffle between the two teams, which had begun almost immediately following the last violence by Hendricks, was stirring up the crowd as well. A brief glance again in the direction of the court showed that the paramedic and team manager had reached Scott, and Coach McKinnon had stepped into Coach Carrington's way and started a shouting match. Finally, Rachel reached Paul who had climbed down the stands to the floor and was about to walk onto the court.

Paul felt a small but firm hand on his arm, and the tug made him turn around. He had not expected it to be Rachel.

"Don't," she told him pointedly, not really understanding her feelings at the moment but knowing better than to ignore them. "I don't know why, but it's dangerous for you here."

Paul gave her a confused look for a moment, then looked back toward the court. "My son needs me."

Rachel tightened her grip on his arm. "Please, Paul." He turned back to her, meeting her eyes as she spoke. "I feel..." Her voice died away as his gaze deepened. She was being much too brazen to speak of unseen dangers to a stranger, but the feelings had been so strong telling her to stop the man from stepping out of the crowd. Why? What possible danger could there be for a father to go to his own son? However, no manner of reasoning could displace the dread she presently felt.

Paul reached up and rested his hand on her shoulder. "I believe you," he said very unexpectedly. "But I still have to help my son." He could sense the young woman's distress and knew now that it was more than mere intuition that prompted it. He also knew that his son needed him. He felt it and had seen the expression on the paramedic's and manager's faces. And, if Scott were to be taken to a hospital, it would prove more detrimental than the injuries he had already suffered.

"Scott will be taken care of," Rachel told him. "Don't put yourself in jeopardy when it isn't necessary." Again she tightened her grip. "They'll probably take him to the hospital for a few tests, just in case there's a head injury. You can go to him there."

"I'm afraid you don't understand," Paul said quietly, yet firmly, and placing his hand over hers. "If I let them take him to a hospital, there will be trouble." The woman's expression became one of confusion, and Paul realized the chance he was taking when he added, "We could both lose our freedom."

Rachel retained his gaze for a moment, seeing more in the man's eyes now than she had before. Confusion was strong, but the truthfulness of his words overwhelmed everything else.

"All right," she told him, nodding. She looked toward the court. Order was being regained, and Scott was being carried off by the two men. Looking back at Paul, Rachel said, "But let me get Scott." Before he had a chance to offer another protest, she released him. "Wait for me here." She left him and began making her way toward the Eagles' bench area where Scott was now being laid down.

As difficult as it was, Paul did as the woman asked. His own feelings told him she could be trusted. He had seen no sign of any deceit in her eyes, nor had he felt it as he touched her. The game restarted within a few minutes to finish the last seconds of the fourth quarter; however, his eyes never returned to the court. They stayed fixed on Rachel. There was something special about her that said it was right and natural to trust her—almost as natural as it had been to put his trust in Jenny Hayden that time almost sixteen years ago.

 

Rachel finally managed to free herself from the crowd and get onto the floor, at the court's boundary lines. Scott had not yet regained consciousness, and it appeared as if they were preparing him to be taken out. Then his eyes immediately fluttered open. That stopped the paramedic in his preparations for the moment because now he could get some questions answered before they left for the hospital. However, in another instant, Rachel was kneeling beside him and the boy.

"Mrs. Donovan," Conway protested lightly, having turned around to find her where she had not been a moment before. "You really shouldn't be down here. We need to get Scott out and over to County General."

"Posh, Conway!" she chided. "You're making a mountain out of a mole hill. He's only shaken up by that last fall," she heard herself lying. She placed her hand on Scott's forehead, and the boy turned to look at her. His eyes were not focusing too well, but he recognized her because she could discern the surprise in his eyes at seeing her there. Her other hand she placed at the lower part of his rib cage. "You know, if you guys could keep your sports straight," she said, still to Conway. "I mean, if you call this basketball, I certainly don't want to see football season next year."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see McKinnon approaching, and the closer he came, the more her feelings of foreboding increased. She had to do something—and quickly. "Scott," she spoke to the teenager, her tone less cryptic and more serious now. "Why don't you put everyone's mind at ease here and let them know that you're OK?" She stressed her last words especially with her eyes.

Scott could not look away. For a moment he felt like he might pass out again.

Rachel saw that Scott's injuries were a bit more than she had first believed. She hoped he could pull things together enough to understand the situation. "Tell them, Scott," she repeated, then added the reason for urgency, Paul's words echoing in her ears. "I mean, everyone here's ready to cart you off to County General."

Even if the rest of it made no sense, the woman's last remark did. "No," he said quickly. "She's right. I'm OK." The pain now in second place to other consequences, he began trying to sit up. Breathing was difficult. Rachel helped him the rest of the way and then sat down beside him on the bench, trying to support him as inconspicuously as possible. Her hand moved to the upper part of his back to ensure more stability—at least for the length of time it would take to satisfy the paramedic that he did not need a trip to Emergency. They needed to buy enough time for him to get dressed.

Scott's color was a little flushed, but luckily the nosebleed had stopped before he had sat up. He looked to the men and boys around him. "Hey, come on," he said, trying to be more convincing than he felt and pulling on reserves he seldom called upon. He also felt a touch within himself that he was positive he recognized this time as his father, and the shakiness began to subside. "I'm feeling a lot better," he said, now able to take a deeper breath. "I just blacked out for a minute after hitting that wall, but I'm all right now."

The paramedic examined both of his eyes again. The difference of what he saw now from what he had seen before made him sit back on his heels and run his hand through his hair. He looked up to McKinnon who, with the game finally over, had come to check on the last casualty of the evening.

The other boys were coming in from the court, and the crowd was already beginning to disperse or to mix with the players they knew or wanted to congratulate.

James and Pablo were the first to make their way through to the bench. Rachel released her hold on Scott, not wanting to call any more attention to herself than she already had.

"Hey, Scott," James brightened when he saw that his friend was actually sitting up. "How's he doing?" he asked the paramedic.

"Let's just say that he's had about the fastest recovery on record."

Scott shrugged. "Just lucky." Then, to try to push attention away from himself, he asked, "How'd it go? What'd I miss?"

James really smiled then. "Our game by two points, thanks to you."

"He means we got two free throws for that bashing you took," Pablo explained.

"Glad I could oblige," Scott returned, wondering a little just how he should take the remark.

"Just don't be making it a habit," James said, hoping to counter any adverse feelings Scott might have had from his over-enthusiastic comments.

"That, I'll be glad to promise," Scott said.

The manager had already corralled the other players and motioned for James and Pablo to head off to the locker room.

"See you in the showers," James told Scott and then reached over and ruffled the younger teenager's hair. "Good game you played tonight."

"Thanks," Scott said, finally cracking a smile. He started to ask Rachel a question but saw that his coach was approaching them and looked up at him as he came to stand by the paramedic. Scott's mixed feelings about his coach were more prevalent now than ever. McKinnon stared down at him more intently than he would have liked under the circumstances. It made him feel a little cold, and he turned to Rachel. Her eyes made him feel completely different, and he was grateful. Her gaze somehow resembled the calm in his father's eyes, and it settled him. Looking back to the paramedic, he asked, "I can go now, can't I?"

The man shook his head. "I can't force you into the hospital, kid. Not when you're up looking like you could go another quarter. Just take it easy over the next several hours."

"I will. Thanks," he told him and got up to follow the others. McKinnon and the team's manager had just been hailed by the principal, and Scott wanted to leave before any more questions began.

Rachel got his attention with a hand on his arm as he started to leave. "Your father and I'll wait for you by the south entrance." He nodded, and she added quickly. "I asked your dad to let me see how you were. It was hard for him to do, but he agreed."

For some reason, Rachel's eyes said a great deal more to him than her words. He nodded but was once again worried that there was some trouble he did not yet know about. "I'll be out as soon as I get a shower," he told her.

"The sooner the better, Scott," she told him honestly. Again her eyes were telling him more than what she said.

As the teenager walked off toward the locker room, Rachel ventured a glance in McKinnon's direction as he turned from his conversation to watch Scott leave. The feelings she had temporarily submerged in order to help Scott came back in a wave that almost sent her reeling, and it frightened her. While she still did not know why, she did know now that there were very definite reasons to be uneasy about the man.

McKinnon turned around, his eyes searching. He had felt something—a presence of some kind. Thinking he would see a man, his immediate reaction was one of surprise to something totally unexpected when his gaze settled on Rachel Donovan, the school's history teacher.

The stare Eric gave Rachel turned her cold, and she looked away. Quickly excusing herself to those around her, she began making her way to the exit. It was all getting very complicated very fast. Rachel had not experienced such a battery of events for several years. She had pulled herself out of the mainstream and moved to quieter surroundings, hoping to regain control over her own life. However, she sensed strongly that there was something about to happen now to complicate things all over again.

 

Outside on the gym steps, Paul's usual patience was waning quickly. He had memories of similar feelings when he had accidentally been separated from Scott with the Mexican border between them. That had lasted a couple of days. At least, he told himself, that was not the case this time. However, it did not settle his nerves because he knew his son was hurt. Also in his mind were the new concerns and an intrigue surrounding Rachel Donovan.

"Paul," someone called to him from the doorway behind him, and he turned around. The young woman stepped into view and walked up to him.

"How is Scott?" he asked pointedly.

"He's walking," she replied. "That says something anyway. He's taking a shower. I told him to hurry and to meet us here."

"I'm worried about him," he told her.

She nodded. "I know." Then she took a deep breath. What she had to tell him was not easy—it never was. "There's something we need to talk about, Paul. Something..." she started, but the man reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder.

"You're afraid of what you feel," he said. "Don't let what you can do frighten you,"

Rachel just looked at him a few moments. She started to reply, but a group walked out of the gymnasium, and she turned away as they passed. The feelings of dread swept over her again, and she shivered. Hugging herself against it, she looked back up at the man. Paul placed a hand on her other shoulder as well.

"Why do you fight your feelings?" he asked quietly.

Rachel's brow creased. "You know. How?" Her voice was almost a whisper, but pleading for an answer.

"It's not easy to explain," Paul returned.

Rachel gave a short laugh. "Echoes. They always come back to you."

"What?" Paul asked, puzzled.

"Never mind," she said, shaking her head. "We'll talk about it later— after we get you and Scott home and away from McKinnon."

"Scott's coach?" This was the second time Paul remembered Rachel making particular mention of the man.

"Yes, Paul. Scott's coach," she replied and gestured with her head toward the gym. "Eric McKinnon. For some reason, I feel that his being here is a threat to you and to Scott."

Paul was listening intently, but his confusion was evident in his eyes. To him—unless McKinnon was somehow connected with the FSA, of course—what kind of threat could he be?

"I can't explain it," she continued. "Not yet. But even if I don't know why, I do know that he doesn't mean you well...either of you. Look at what's already happened to Scott. He had a pretty good hand in that."

Paul frowned and shook his head, releasing her. "That was a game, Rachel," he said quietly. "I can't say that I understand it, but I have seen things like this happen."

"McKinnon's to blame, Paul," Rachel insisted. "Why he did what he did I don't understand—not yet. Maybe, if you'll just trust me enough to tell me more about you and Scott...." She faltered a little and reached out to steady herself against his chest. The almost constant barrage of feelings were beginning to take their toll. It had just been too long since she had had to deal with them.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his concern changing in her direction for the moment.

She took a deep breath and then nodded. "I hope Scott steps it up," she said and looked up at him. "That adrenaline high he's on won't last forever. We could end up carrying him out of here, and I don't think you want that kind of attention just now."

"What's this about carrying me somewhere?" Scott asked as he walked out the door and came to a stop beside his father. "If you're offering, I just may take you up on it," he teased lightly, leaning a little against his father.

Turning to him, Paul saw that Scott was more serious about the idea than he sounded. He was pale, and it was quite obvious that the pain Paul had been able to mask for him had started again and with a vicious intent. Paul put his arm around him.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help. There wasn't enough time."

Scott managed a slight smile. "I knew it had to be you," he said, making the remark a vague one in front of his teacher.

Paul gripped his shoulder a little tighter. "Things will be better after we get home."

The teenager nodded, and they went down the steps and started down the sidewalk. But Scott had to stop short when the dizziness began again. The nosebleed was starting up as well, and Rachel handed him several tissues from her jacket pocket. He took them hurriedly.

"Where's your car?" Rachel asked.

"I walked," Paul returned. "The apartment's only ten blocks from the school."

"That's about nine too far for Scott, I'm afraid," Rachel remarked. "My car's at the end of the parking lot. The quicker we can get Scott and you home and away from here, the better."

"Did I miss something?" Scott asked more than a little puzzled by the way the woman had phrased her last statement.

In a definite hurry now, Paul did not answer him. He took one of his son's arms while Rachel took the other, and the two began leading the boy in the direction of the parking lot.

"I'd really like to know what's going on," Scott said, his voice muffled by the tissues.

"Later," Paul told him quietly, but in a tone that related to his son that there would be no more said for a while, probably not until they arrived at the apartment.

Scott was definitely confused, but, at the same time, he was more than willing to be taken to a place he could at least sit down. He had gone from the numbness that had set in on the gym floor, to a state where he had actually felt pretty good, to his present condition where he felt like he had been bounced off the front of a semi. Just how many guys had hit him on that last foul anyway? he wondered.

They reached Rachel's car, and she handed Paul her keys to open the door. "You drive. I'll keep tabs on the nosebleed."

Paul was too concerned to argue, and the two of them put Scott into the front seat and pushed him over toward the middle, and Rachel slid in beside him. Paul walked around to the driver's side, got in and started the car. Neither Paul nor Rachel noticed the figure that was standing in the shadows of the building.

 

Eric watched them drive out of the parking lot and onto the street, his thoughts still arranging the events of the evening. He had learned a great deal that night—more than expected.

CHAPTER 8

"This is ridiculous," Scott muffled a complaint at the nosebleed. "It wasn't this bad the first time."

Paul reached into his back pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to Rachel. Scott tossed the now soaked tissues onto the floorboard.

"You got hit a couple of times after that first time, kiddo," Rachel chided the teenager as she took the handkerchief from Paul and put it over Scott's nose, applying pressure. She cradled his head in her other hand. "Slowing your heart rate'll help. Try to relax as much as you can."

Scott did as he was told and put his own hand over Rachel's and the handkerchief. It surprised him to find out she was trembling, and he turned his eyes in her direction.

"Too much pressure?" she asked him, then realized he was scrutinizing her. However, before she had a chance to comment, he looked away again and closed his eyes.

It was Paul's turn to glance over at the woman. Scott had not answered her question, and he was looking to her for some kind of report on his son's status.

"He'll be OK," she reassured him. "He just needs to settle down some."

Paul tried to do some settling of his own, but it was not that easy. He had felt the pain Scott was experiencing when they brought him to the car. However, at the same time, he knew they could deal with this kind of pain. He figured he should be grateful that the problems that plagued Scott at present were purely physical, and something he could take care of, rather than just worry about it, which accomplished nothing. Still, while learning to be a father to Scott, he had developed various worries and concerns that simply could not be dismissed at one's bidding. The nervous system he had inherited, along with his body, was quite often difficult and overly confusing to have to contend with and still maintain a moderate level of logical behavior on his behalf. Sometimes he had serious doubts about the latter ever winning out in the long run.

Scott groaned involuntarily when Paul had to make a sudden stop at a traffic light. His rib cage did not appreciate the jarring, and neither did his head.

"It won't be long," Scott heard the quiet voice of the woman beside him, and he tried to set that in the front of his mind; they were almost at the apartment. He hoped his dad could do something once they did get home. He wasn't going to wish for any miracles, but he was hoping to be able to get a little sleep that night.

Arriving at the apartment, Paul parked Rachel's car beside their pickup. Rachel released Scott with both hands, making sure he had a firm grasp on the handkerchief, and helped Paul get him out of the car on the driver's side. Scott's head spun a little when he first stood up, but he managed to retain his balance. His father kept a firm hold on his arm, just below his shoulder, to guide him inside. Rachel opened the gateway to the apartments' inner courtyard, and then closed it behind the two. There was an inside stairway that had to be taken next to get to the apartment, and that proved to be more of an obstacle than Scott expected.

He made it to the first landing fairly well, but turning the corner to start up the second set of steps leading to their doorway he felt the world begin to close in on him again. He stumbled on the third step and was only vaguely aware that his father shifted his hold to get his arms around him to walk him up the remainder of the way. There was no room on the stairway for Rachel to help, other than to walk behind them and help prevent Paul from overbalancing himself. Once at the top of the stairs, however, the problem was easier to reckon with. When Rachel got around them and opened the door, Paul simply released Scott with one hand, reached down, and picked him up. Scott was in no position to protest. In fact, he wasn't really sure of what was happening. More instinctively than purposely, he grabbed for something when his feet left the floor and caught a handful of leather at the collar of Paul's jacket. His head fell against his father's shoulder.

Rachel was not sure how long Paul could sustain Scott's weight, but the way the man carried him, the matter seemed negligible. Paul's memory flashed back to the time he had carried Jenny a great distance after she had been injured by a policeman. Now, like then, a psionic adjustment was necessary to counter gravity's resistance, but it was not difficult. In fact, even without the added help he was capable of utilizing, Paul would have managed to carry Scott, no matter what the distance. As he was learning all the time, certain abilities simply seemed to come with the territory of parenthood.

"My keys are in my right, jacket pocket," Paul told the woman when they reached the apartment, and Rachel retrieved them quickly and opened the door.

It was cooler inside the apartment than it was outside or in the hallway, and it was welcomed by all. Scott felt himself being lowered and then the comfort of something soft to lie on. After Paul laid him on the bed, he took hold of the boy's hand to disengage it from his jacket and straightened. Scott opened his eyes and tried to focus and pull things back into some kind of order. He failed on both counts and shut his eyes again, wincing at the pain escalating in his head.

Rachel wet a couple of washcloths. She pushed gently against Paul's arm as a gesture for him to move so that she could sit down next to Scott. He stepped to one side, and she sat on the bed. She took a couple of deep breaths and wiped one of the cloths over Scott's face to wash away the perspiration and what remained of the nosebleed. The second she placed on his forehead. He was beginning to run a fever. Touching his face stirred up another wave of feelings Rachel had difficulty sorting. There were too many conflicting elements surrounding the boy and his father. A hand placed on her shoulder broke her thoughts. She looked up at the man.

"I want to thank you for helping us tonight."

Rachel shrugged. "Everyone needs some help now and then."

"But I've learned that not everyone gives of themselves as freely as you've done."

Paul's use of the word "learned" in his statement was curious. Rachel could not help taking note of it.

"Something..." she started, trying again to give him an explanation of some kind, but she paused a moment. Past experiences had made the decision almost inherently difficult. "Something inside," she said, touching her chest with her fingertips, "tells me that you're someone very special, Paul Forrester."

"I'm a man," he returned. "And a father."

"And much more, I think," Rachel said. Then she turned and placed her hand over his, which still rested on her shoulder. She stood up to face him. Her tone became even more serious. "Paul, what happened tonight wasn't all because of a group of teenagers too zealous about a basketball game. It wasn't all their doing that Scott got hurt. His injuries just didn't happen like the others." She stopped and took another breath when she saw by his expression that she was only opening the matter into more questions and confusion. Paul was searching her eyes again, but she felt something deeper within her mind.

"You're wondering how much you can trust me," Rachel spoke up after a short silence.

"Yes," Paul answered, without hesitation.

She smiled a little. "Funny, huh? I've been asking myself the very same thing about you. Even funnier is that you're the first person I ever had such a strong first impression that told me I could trust you. Almost sight unseen, as they say." Her fingers slipped around his hand. "Tell me, Paul Forrester. Just who are you that I should feel that way when I never have about anyone else?"

He lowered his hand from her shoulder, taking hers with his and held it tightly. "I come from a place where trust is unnecessary because there are no secrets. It was difficult to learn that here truth is so valuable that it is seldom used."

Rachel cracked a smile. Again, his use of words was strange, yet the conclusion he had stated was indisputable....almost so true it hurt. She wondered just how much she really wanted to know the answer to her next question, but she asked it. "What place, Paul? Can you tell me?"

"The name would mean very little, but when you leave tonight, I will show you. On such a clear night, it is easy to see."

Rachel straightened a bit, taking in a breath that she tried to prevent from being a gasp. The shiver was unintentional as well. It was not the same as when Eric had looked at her in the gymnasium. This was more excitement than dread. How could she fear someone as gentle as this man was? And she had observed his behavior under very harsh circumstances. Her deepest feelings told her that what he was telling her was fact not fiction. "What about Scott?" was her next question, not much above a whisper. She had to take it a step a time in order to place things in perspective and curb inclinations toward adverse reactions.

"His mother is Jenny Hayden. She is from Wisconsin. There was trouble with the government, and I had to leave her. She helped me escape. That was over fifteen years ago."

"But you came back," Rachel prodded a little when it appeared he was going to end his explanation.

"Because I was needed. Jenny was having trouble from the same men who had hunted me. She had given Scott to friends to protect him when he was three. They were killed in a car accident not very long ago, and Scott was left all alone. When I came back, I thought it was Jenny who had called me, but it was my son." He stopped the explanation there.

"And you felt that? All the way to..." Rachel shook her head. "And they say I'm sensitive to feelings."

"I don't know if you'd understand if I explained it."

"Don't worry. I have the general idea. Where's your Jenny? Is she safe?"

"I don't know," Paul returned a little sadly. "I found her once. I was with her a few days, but Scott and I were separated. He didn't even get to see her before the government people interfered again. But we won't give up until we find her—until we're together."

"You intend to stay this time, then?"

"Yes."

"Dad?" a rather hoarse voice called to Paul. Scott had just awakened again.

Paul turned from the girl to his son. He sat on the bed and laid his hand on Scott's chest. The boy's pain seemed to stab at him, something that did not usually happen. His empathy was normally recognition rather than actual tactile transference. But, after all, this was very different. Scott was part of him. "We need to take care of this now," he told the boy.

"No arguments from me," Scott returned. "Whatever you think you can do without getting us into too much trouble. I'll just have to live with the rest." He tried to smile.

"You've had more than your share of pain for one night," Rachel spoke up. She still harbored anger toward McKinnon and the other coach for what had happened. "I wouldn't worry about what anyone thinks. Whatever your father here can do to help, let him."

First, Scott was a little surprised to see that his teacher was still there. Second, what she was saying sounded very much like his dad had been talking to her about things other than the game. He looked at Paul with a rather astonished expression. "Dad, did you...?" He let the question trail off, not wanting to say anything himself, just in case he was wrong.

"She knows," Paul told him.

"Why?"

Paul stroked his son's forehead gently, brushing his hair back. Scott was hot, his body already retaliating in its own way to the injuries. Paul knew that did not put the boy in a very receptive mood. "I'll explain my reasons after I take care of you," he said, then asked, "How do you feel?"

"Light-headed," Scott answered, running his tongue across his lips. His mouth was dry.

Paul took off his jacket, retrieving his sphere from his pocket before tossing the jacket onto the foot of the bed. Rachel decided it would be better if she just sat down out of the way and stayed silent. She glanced at Scott who seemed to be apprehensive about her presence. She put her hands in her pockets and tried at least to look relaxed. Paul looked at her and then back to his son.

"I know we can trust her, Scott."

The two exchanged silent glances for a moment, then Scott settled back on his pillow.

"OK," he relented, then sighed. "You know, you've never had to fix anything more than a black eye or a scratch for me. Is there something you need me to do?"

Paul smiled at the question. "No, just relax. Take a walk or something—here." He pointed to his head.

"You mean use my imagination. Since you've been around, I've been using plenty of that," he teased, trying to take his mind away from the throbbing in his head. He thought a moment. "I think I'll try a walk in that area where we went for those pictures."

"It was very quiet there," Paul said, opening the hand in which he held the sphere. "It's a good choice." He rested his other hand lightly on the teenager's chest again, and it surprised him a little when Scott reached over with his right hand and took hold of it. He held his son's hand in return, and it was not long before Scott's breathing started to even out, as well as his heartbeat. Considering the physical discomfort he was experiencing, his ability to swing his mind away from it at his age was rather exceptional.

Rachel watched both of them intently from the other bed. Her own feelings were somehow mixed with theirs, and she was having difficulty sorting them again. Afraid she would interfere with what Paul was trying to do, she tried hard not to fight against the feelings. This time she would see where they would take her.

Paul closed his eyes. Scott's were already closed. He was almost dozing. Paul then began the process of locating and marking every point of damage Scott had received on the basketball court and then logging it in his mind precisely as to position and degree of severity. From there it was a matter of replacement through a kind of energy transfer. The energy would be added to Scott's body's own ability to heal itself and thus accelerate it to a point where the injuries would soon be nothing more than a memory. The procedure would indeed reap benefits for Scott, but it also involved an extremely high-level energy drain on the sphere.

The first thing that had to be done was to stop the nosebleed. That was relatively simple, a common malady for boys, Paul had learned. Scott's shoulder was badly bruised from the last fall he had taken, and his ribs had been bashed pretty good several times, although nothing had been broken. These, Paul knew, would take the longest to repair.

Scott relaxed into a state where it felt almost as if he were drifting. He almost fought it, then told himself he had no reason to be afraid. He trusted his father more than he did any doctor. Since the nosebleed had stopped, he could breathe more easily, and he noticed that the area around his ribs was becoming warm, and that the pain was subsiding. His shoulder was the next to feel the strange warmth, and the pain gradually disappeared. When finally his head began to feel less like an anvil under a blacksmith's hammer, he started giving in to the drowsiness that had been pulling at him from the beginning. It was not long before he simply fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

The pleasant walk he had been taking in his mind to relax continued into his dreams. The trees blew lazily in the wind, and the sounds in the forest were distant and subdued. A scratching noise to his right, made him look up. There was a bobcat standing on the rock above him. Trying to maintain his balance, the cat's claws had scratched on the rocky surface. At first it startled him, but after the wildcat had eyed him for a few moments, it lay down, showing it meant no harm to him. Then Scott noticed that the wind had stopped. Glancing around, he also realized that all the other noises were gone now as well. It was like the dead calm before a storm, and it made him shiver a little. He looked back up to the rock where the cat had shown itself. At least it would give him a feeling that he was not totally alone; however, the cat was gone. Then he sensed a familiarity about his circumstances. It was the dream again, and he didn't wish to traverse those events again. He tried to wake up; he had to.

The voices started, and he tried not to listen. He knew the conversation word for word and did not wish another run-through. With each verbal interchange of the two unseen men, his agitation grew. He covered his ears, not even entering into the argument as he had before. Then something occurred to him. Something about the second voice was somehow familiar now when it had not been before. The recognition startled him so much that he forgot about the appearance of the grizzly. This time he didn't awaken at first sight of the bear. When he looked into its eyes, he saw the eyes of the man whose voice he had just identified.

The knowledge froze him, giving the bear the chance to swing at him with its huge paw. The claws caught Scott's left shoulder, and the pain shocked his system into a reflexive action. He jerked away—both from the grip and from the hold the bear's stare seemed to have over him. The claws raked his shoulder, neck, and the lower part of his face as he fell back. He was unable to keep himself from falling, but managed to stifle a scream and threw his uninjured arm across his face when he saw that the bear was descending on him.

 

"Scott!" he heard his dad calling his name. He jerked back again in an attempt to escape from beneath the mass of fur, claws, and teeth. "Scott, wake up!" His dad's voice was clearer this time, mainly because the growling had suddenly stopped. He made himself take a deep breath and then opened his eyes.

He was still lying on his side, his arm over his face, but he was not on the ground. He sighed in relief when he realized that the dream, although it had taken him further and appeared even more vivid than before, was over. However, the feeling of loneliness was not as easily dispelled. From his present viewpoint he could see no one, and for a brief moment, that was just as frightening as the dream had been.

"Scott," Paul tried again.

This time the teenager responded to the summons, lowering his arm and turning over in the direction of the sound. A slight pain streaked through the left side of his head when he tried to sit up, and he winced. "Dad?" he asked, trying to focus.

Paul was sitting beside him, just where he had been when Scott had fallen asleep, and still holding his hand. "Scott, are you all right?" he asked, his concern unmistakable. He brushed Scott's hair back from his forehead with his other hand. Perspiration was beginning to get into the boy's eyes.

Scott rubbed his eyes and nodded. "I think so. What happened?" He blinked again in an attempt to clear his vision and looked around a little. Rachel was still sitting on the other bed, but she had a rather frightened look on her face. "Was I dreaming?" He shook his head and muttered to himself, "At least I hope that's all it was." He rubbed his left shoulder. It was still aching where he had banged it during the game. So was his head. However, the nosebleed was gone, as well as the pain in his ribs.

"Yes, you were dreaming," Paul told him. "And maybe a little more than dreaming."

"What?" Scott asked, sinking back into his pillow. Any calm he had gained at first was gone now.

"You know what an energy feedback is," Paul began, searching for words to define what had happened. It was difficult to explain something to someone who had no viable reference to the subject. He realized it was probably the same way Scott felt when he would try to explain something new to his father. Scott nodded that he did know. "When you went into a dream state, I was able to correct most of your injuries—except for your shoulder. Right after I started to repair that, I started getting an energy feedback. I wasn't expecting it. I thought you were still too young for something like this to begin happening. I had to utilize a stronger surge of energy to reverse what was happening. It's going to take it a week or so for the sphere to regain the loss, I'm afraid."

"I don't understand why it happened," Scott said.

"It was obvious that whatever you were dreaming was upsetting you," Paul returned to the subject as if he had never been sidetracked.

Flashes of the dream streaked across Scott's thoughts, and he shuddered involuntarily. "Oh, it was that same nightmare again...the one from the other night." He brushed his fingers through his hair. "I thought I was through with that thing. When I started that walk in my imagination, I never should have used the park. It must have triggered the whole thing."

"It just might have," Paul agreed, and the more agitated and frightened you became in the dream, the more feedback I got. Were you in pain in the dream, either mentally or physically?"

"Both," Scott returned, looking over to Rachel for a moment as he tried to piece odds and ends of understanding together. Things were still pretty fragmented. Then he looked back at his father. "The bear in my nightmare actually attacked me this time." His hand went to his shoulder again, the vividness of the strike still with him. "He snagged my shoulder. That's when I pulled away—from his hold...and from that stare of his."

"And when you did that, you broke the link I had with you." Paul sighed, then added, "Which, as I said, is more than I expected from you at this time in your life."

Scott's face really held a question now. "I'm sorry I'm confused, but there's just too much I don't understand of what you do or what I might or might not be able to do someday."

"I know," Paul said, then turned to Rachel. "What about you?" He laid a gentle hand on her knee. "Are you all right?"

Scott looked over to her as well. After his father touched and spoke to her, some of the uncertainty in her eyes faded. Being included seemed to help. His father's soft voice and gentle manner did not hurt, he was sure.

Rachel shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, she sighed, "I'm fine. What you can do...I could say it was amazing, but that'd hardly cover it. What you were using...that blue light. What is it? What does it do exactly?" The questions were specific but timidly spoken.

Paul straightened up and opened his hand for her to see the sphere, now looking like nothing more than a big silver marble. "What I can do is often limited to the energy reserves of a sphere like this one," he explained. "Away from my home I have some difficulty using and directing my own energy. Our sun is much larger than Earth's sun. That's why I was given the spheres to use here in the beginning. When I need help, like tonight, I use it. But I have to be very careful. Constant or excessive use of the energy causes long-term loss in the sphere.

The sphere will regain the energy it has lost, unless the source is completely tapped before it has time to regenerate. When that happens, it becomes part of the energy outlay itself and disappears." He turned to Scott. "I found that out very quickly when I was stranded here fifteen years ago. When my ship came for me, I had only one left—the one I gave to your mother for you." Looking back to Rachel, he concluded his explanation to her. "If we used up the energy from the two spheres that Scott and I have now, we wouldn't have anything to help us against those people who are hunting us."

"You mentioned that before," Rachel said. "About someone being after you - someone from the government."

"Yes," Paul returned and would have explained if Rachel had not spoken up first.

"Let me take a guess," she said, putting her hands back into her pockets. "Federal Security agents. Some general in the Pentagon wants to add you to his collection of lab rats."

Scott could not suppress the astonished look he gave her. It was almost accusing. The woman's words had immediately renewed his suspicions toward her. "How do you...?" he started, his voice holding anger, but his father's hand laid on his arm stopped him. "But, Dad," he protested.

"Scott, let her explain before you start accusing her of something." However, the teenager had experienced betrayal more times than he cared to count and was having difficulty with the idea of lowering his guard again after what the woman had just said. Paul frowned at him. "You're acting more like Fox right now. Do you realize that? Rachel helped us. She deserves more consideration than that, don't you think?"

The boy settled back again, flushing this time in embarrassment rather than anger.

"Scott," Rachel spoke to him, understanding his feelings more than he could have imagined, "whether you can accept my word now or not, I'll tell you—both of you—that there is absolutely nothing anyone could offer me that would entice me to work for, or even help the FSA—especially any of General Wade's men."

"How is it you know him?" Scott asked her, trying hard to soften his tone, but the man's name was just as much of a trigger for his emotions as _George Fox_. "The FSA isn't exactly one of Washington's PR groups that do TV commercials or run ads in the local paper."

"Let me ask you something to ask yourself," Rachel countered. "I told you I don't work for the Federal Security Agency. I will also tell you that I have never been in attendance at any of Washington's famous political receptions that generals—like Wade—and their staffs frequent, nor am I a friend of anyone who does. With that said, how would you think it is that I could know about General Wade and the organization he runs?"

Scott thought about the question, running possibilities over in his mind. One nagged at him more than the others, but he frowned at the mere idea and shook his head against it.

Rachel glanced over to Paul. "I think he's beginning to get it," she told him.

"OK," Scott said finally, "I'll bite. The FSA wants you for something, like they want my dad and me. But for what reason?"

"You practically said it yourself, Scott. Why is it they want you and your father?" she asked him.

The teenager sat back, releasing a sigh that bordered on either impatience or disgust, perhaps a little of both. Rachel could not be sure. "I suppose you're going to tell me you're an alien, too."

Rachel almost smiled and glanced over to Paul to see what his reaction was to Scott's statement.

"I'm afraid Scott lets his feelings rule his words sometimes," the man said apologetically.

"Trust is never easy when it's so difficult to be sure who your friends are from day to day. His cynicism is pretty light compared to a lot of people I know."

"I don't think I'm asking so much to want to hear the truth," Scott defended to both.

Rachel shook her head. "Never apologize for wanting the truth, Scott. So..." she said, rubbing her hands up and down her jeans to dry her perspiring hands, "...to answer your last question first, I was born in Las Lunas, New Mexico. It was my mother's hometown. She was a teacher. And my father..." She stopped a moment, looked to Paul and then smiled as she turned back to Scott. "My father, before arriving in New Mexico, had been a modern-day cowboy on a west Texas ranch—in the Big Bend country." She stopped for a moment to let the information settle with the boy, then resigned herself to return the trust Paul had placed in her. "As for your first question, of why the FSA might have an interest in me. Well,..." She sighed, pushed against her legs to straighten her posture, and took in a deep breath. She released it slowly, closing her eyes.

Scott's brow creased, but watched in silence. He did not have long to wait. The woman's expression became very serene, then she opened her eyes and looked over to the bureau that was across the room from them. Paul's camera case was sitting on top. They all heard the sound of the zipper as it scratched open. Paul's camera, still attached to its flash mount, left the case and came toward them. It did not float to them, but flew rapidly straight for Rachel who, at the last moment before the camera hit her, put up a hand for it to halt. It stopped dead still in the air, about three inches from her open palm. She held it there for a moment, no more strain in her face than when Paul utilized his sphere, then she reached out her hand and took hold of it. She handed it to Paul.

Scott swallowed his first verbal reaction, and then he almost could not find his voice at all. "I guess that answers things pretty good."

"I could have given you something a little more dramatic," Rachel shrugged, her voice almost one of timidity again, "but sometimes the energy field fragments, especially when I haven't done any practicing for a long time."

"What happens?" Scott asked, curious.

"Well, let's just say it's nothing the landlord likes," she told him. "The mirrors and windows have a tendency to go first. Then crystal and porcelain and things like that."

"Go?"

Rachel spread the fingers of both her hands in a gesture of something coming apart. "Snap, crackle, crash - stuff like that, I'm afraid," she said.

"I can imagine that those guys at the Pentagon had ideas of working you into their defense plans," Scott surmised. His father gave him a confused look. "If you can crack up a piece of china, Dad, why not a missile?" he asked in order to explain his statement. "Use it against the other side. Get it?"

Paul not only frowned but cringed at the idea. He still could not understand the reasoning men had for making war. "Is that what they wanted?" he asked, turning back to Rachel. His voice betrayed his feelings almost more than his expression.

"It probably crossed their minds," Rachel answered. "They started tests on me when I was seven. I..."

"Seven?" Scott interrupted. He did not mean to be rude, but it had shocked him a little. His mother had given him up when he was only three to prevent such things being done to him. "Your parents let those guys have you when you were just seven?"

"They were my foster parents," Rachel emphasized. "My parents died of scarlet fever when I was six. I got it, too, but survived somehow. The doctors think that the illness might have been the key that opened Pandora's Box on my abilities, so to speak."

"Pandora's Box?" Paul questioned, pulled off track again.

"Greek mythology," Scott told him, then explained, "It was a box full of trouble. I'll have to tell you about it sometime."

"So what you're saying is that these people who ran the tests on you treated your abilities like a threat," Paul said, drawing his own conclusions from what he personally knew about the FSA.

Rachel nodded. "The older I got, the stronger I got. By the time I was Scott's age, they were getting panicky. I guess they thought I might try splitting a few atoms or maybe the Earth's core, if I got angry enough. Who knows really?"

"But all you wanted was to be left alone," Scott interjected.

Rachel laughed, although it was devoid of any amusement. "I wanted to go to a normal school, have a few friends." She shrugged. "Have just one friend - at least one that didn't wear a lab coat all the time." She leaned back, resting against her hands on the bed behind her. "Truth is, though, I was afraid to have any friends. Afraid I'd lose my temper and do something before I could stop it. They had me as paranoid as they were."

"You obviously learned to control it," Scott said. "You seem to be doing fine with it now."

"I had it controlled before I was eight," Rachel said, a tinge of disgust in her voice. "It wasn't even my nature to anger easily at all. But you'd be surprised just how contagious paranoia can be, especially political paranoia. One of the professors at the institute where I was being educated got wind of something they had in mind to do with me, and more or less abducted me, except I wasn't an unwilling party to it. He took me to Canada, then to Europe, then South America."

She laughed, almost sadly this time. "I learned more about people and their history that way than I ever would have learned in a school or university. I also learned a lot about life—who cherished it, who tolerated it, who hated it." She stopped again for a moment. "Dr. Anders died while we were in China. Cat and mouse games tend to age you really fast, and he had been in his late sixties when he first took me from the Institute."

"Why did you even come back to the United States where they knew you?" asked Scott.

"It's my home," she said simply. "And I wasn't really any safer overseas than I was here. Governments don't keep their secrets as well as they'd like to think. And given the choice..." She let it trail off.

"So now?" Scott prodded, his suspicions well forgotten.

"Now, I teach," Rachel answered. "Dr. Anders made sure I had the documentation I needed to teach anywhere I might decide to go. For several years I managed to stay out of harm's way, moving whenever I started getting the feeling I shouldn't be where I was. Three and a half years ago, though, I hit a snag in my system. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I just didn't care." She shrugged. "General Wade's men cornered me. Caught me between the university where I was teaching and my apartment. I spent six months in some sort of cryogenic hibernation." She shuddered at the memory. "It was one long nightmare I couldn't wake up from."

"I've read some about the cryogenics they have here," Paul told her. "The FSA tranquilized Scott and me and kept us in cages no bigger than one of those units a few months back when they caught up to us in Arizona near one of the air bases."

"I almost got to see my mom that time," Scott said, looking down.

Paul put a hand on his son's knee. It was a sad memory all around. He turned the conversation back to Rachel. "How did you get away from them?"

"Sam," Rachel said, sitting up again and rubbing the circulation back into her hands gently. It became obvious that her story was becoming harder to tell now. "Samuel," she revised. "He was part of the civilian night security the FSA hired. One night around 1:00 a.m., the cryogenic perpetuation system was cut off. I woke up, and there was Sam, just staring down at me. When I finally got to where I could talk again, I asked him why. He said he just had to see the color of my eyes." She stopped, her hands going to her face quickly to catch and wipe away the tears. "I'm sorry," she apologized.

"Why sorry?" Paul asked innocently. Scott was not in a position to offer any words to either adult, so he just kept quiet and waited.

Rachel shook her head. "I mean about the tears."

"I find tears happen whether you want them or not," Paul remarked.

The woman smiled at him. "Sam used to throw lines like that at me, just to see my reaction, I think. He was so sweet and so gentle. After all the men I'd had to be afraid of in my life, except for my father and Dr. Anders, it was hard at first to believe all he wanted to do was to help me. But he did. He took me out of the hibernation unit, got me out of the building and past the other security, and got me out of the city...then drove me all the way to Wyoming using every back road imaginable. He said he'd been planning the whole thing for weeks."

"Who was in Wyoming?" Scott asked.

"Just friends of Sam's; he was an outdoorsman. I mean a real survivalist type. He loved rock climbing, mountain climbing, hiking, fishing, running the rapids - everything like that, except for hunting." She forced herself to relax her shoulders. Trying to get through the story without getting overly emotionally was difficult. "He hated hunting. Said he'd rather eat roots than kill something as beautiful as a deer. It was just the way he was. He spent a lot of his vacations in Wyoming and on the Divide, so he knew several people there.

You might be surprised at the loyalty involved in many of the wilderness and naturalist groups," she added almost as an aside. "When we finally got to Cheyenne, Sam set me up with a family to stay with for a while. It had to be the hardest good-bye I had ever said. He had given me back my life." She took a deep breath to steady her voice. "What I didn't realize was that I had fallen in love with him over those miles we had been together. I tried to tell myself it was gratitude or that it was because he was handsome and kind. He was a couple of years older but still enjoyed being a kid.

I told myself it was a whirlwind infatuation and then cried myself to sleep that night like some teenage girl." She gave a little laugh. "The last thing I expected, and would never have dared to wish for, was Sam shaking me awake the next morning. I figured life just didn't work that way. But he'd already repacked my things, and we left before dawn. In the car, he told me he realized he couldn't leave me—not with anyone—and asked if I would be content to stay with him. He had an idea about Montana."

"So you went," Scott spoke, smiling more now. The story had seemingly taken a turn around that he liked.

"We stopped in Nevada in a small country town and got married. Sam had been through it on one of his camping trips and had learned that they still filed things, like births, deaths, and marriages, by hand in county record books. I doubt the FSA has any idea at all about the marriage. It's really a needle in a haystack, so to speak, just like Sam planned it to be, and I hope they never find out. Then we left for Montana. We spent two whole years in the mountains there. The only government we saw was a couple of rangers, and they never saw us."

"You said Sam helped you escape three years ago," Paul caught the time difference easily. He had also been feeling the increasing pain she had been experiencing since she had first mentioned Sam's name. "What happened?"

"Silliest thing, really," she said, rubbing at her eyes again. "Him, the survivalist he was, and us in the century we're in. He caught pneumonia about five months after Sara was born...and he died."

"Sara?" Scott asked, knowing he was pulling her into another direction, but he did not want to see her cry like her expression intimated. Their situations were too similar, and his own emotions were not that easily controlled when he was as tired as he was now.

"My daughter," Rachel answered with a smile this time as she dried her eyes and cheeks with the heels of her hands. "She's almost eighteen months now. She and Mandy and I have lived here very quietly these past months."

"Who's Mandy?" It was Paul who intervened this time.

"My cat - a very smart one, too. She's very good with Sara and reports everything that happens with the sitter each day to me," she added with a tone close to pride.

"You make it sound like she talks," Scott remarked.

"She does," Rachel replied in a tone of honesty Scott found all too familiar. Then she added, "To me."

"You and my dad," said the boy, shaking his head and crossing his arms in front of him as he leaned back.

"You'll learn," Paul told him, grinning. "Given time."

"I can wait," the boy teased. "I'm in no hurry to be chattering with chipmunks and squirrels."

Rachel's laugh was almost like sparkling crystal and such a relief after her story.

"Can your daughter...?" Scott tried to find the words, but Rachel understood.

"I don't know, Scott. Like I said, my own abilities might have been initiated by the fever I had as a child." Then her smile broadened again. "All I do know is that I haven't lost a baby-sitter yet. I mean, no one's ever complained of a haunted nursery to me."

This time Scott laughed. He pulled his shoulder a little and winced but didn't stop laughing. Paul noticed the brief grimace.

"I think I have some work to finish," the man commented,

"And I need to get home before my sitter starts calling all over town to see if I've met with foul play." She looked over to Scott a bit mischievously. "No pun intended, of course."

Scott gave her an incredulous look. Paul started to question the statement, but the teenager grabbed his arm. "Don't ask," he told him, and Rachel's smile widened as she stood up.

Paul got up, too. "I'll walk you to your car."

Rachel zipped up her jacket. "The door will suffice tonight," she told him, leading the way into the front room. "Good night, Scott," she said to the teenager as she left the bedroom.

"Bye," Scott returned quietly. He could have asked a dozen more questions, but what he had already learned would easily hold him a while.

Paul opened the front door for Rachel, but as she stepped into the doorway, she turned back and looked up at him.

"We need to talk, Paul. About Eric, I mean."

"Yes," he agreed.

"Are you going to talk to Scott about him?"

"I don't know anything yet I can tell him," Paul returned, "except to be careful. Tonight I'm just going to see he gets some sleep."

"Can you come to see me at my office at 1:00 tomorrow? I have a short break then before my next class."

"I'll be there," Paul said.

"Good night," Rachel told him and walked down the hallway to the steps.

Paul closed the door then went to the window to check to see that she got into her car all right. Returning to the bedroom, he saw that Scott was already dozing. It had been a very long evening. He reached into his shirt pocket, where he had dropped the sphere during Rachel's story and sat on the bed. Scott woke up and yawned.

"I'll make this a quick as I can," Paul told him. "So you can get enough sleep here and not in your classes at school tomorrow."

"Your 'concern' about my schooling is great, Dad," Scott told him, "but I promise you, they won't miss me."

"No, they won't," Paul replied with a slight, yet mischievous smile, "because you'll be there."

Scott groaned at his usual failure at getting a day off, and his father was amused. The smile gave the fact away.

"I'll finish the work on that shoulder first, then do your face," he said, opening his hand to reveal the sphere and its warm glow again. However, Scott stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Paul's look turned confused.

"Better just make it the shoulder, Dad," Scott explained. "You take away all the bruises, and somebody's going to get suspicious." The two considered each other a moment.

"If that's the way you want it," Paul conceded, although reluctantly.

"Not 'want' exactly," Scott said. "But some things just aren't explainable. A bad bruise that disappears overnight is one of those things." He sat back, but remembered something and added quickly. "But the nosebleed.... Whatever else, do make sure the nosebleed's fixed. Please."

Paul smiled and then sat down to work. As the sphere became brighter, the familiar soft blue halo rose in Paul's hand. Scott sat back in thought, contemplating the events of the evening and night. He wondered about Rachel and her life, and then he remembered something from earlier in the evening when things had not been very clear at the beginning.

Rachel had been saying something to his father about his coach, and Paul had stopped the conversation. It had been quite deliberate. He wondered what his dad was holding back from him—if he was. It certainly was not like him to do so, and Scott could not help wondering how his overly persistent dream fit into the picture because it just did not seem to be a simple run of random events that were normal to a typical dream sequence. It always seemed so frighteningly real. He suppressed a shiver.

CHAPTER 9

The fact that Scott had made it into school at all the next day surprised almost everyone who had been at the game Thursday night. Cameron's and Tommy's injuries had kept them both home for that Friday and the weekend, too, and Scott had been bounced around by Hendricks more times than either of them. Many were talking about the fact that both he and Cameron had been kept in the game unnecessarily long. Scott had even been returned under very debatable circumstances after the hit he had taken in the face. Some of the other players, especially James, were saying that he had returned under pressure from McKinnon.

Scott was keeping still about the whole matter. While outward appearances made him look as if he might have collided with a freight train, he felt pretty good—for reasons he could hardly enumerate. But that was only from a physical standpoint. Mentally, he remained rather uneasy about what he had learned the night before, and he did not understand why his father had suddenly cut the conversation short after Rachel had started talking about Coach McKinnon. His dad did not seem 'angry-upset' about what had happened, only 'concerned-upset'. Of course, anger was not something he was used to seeing in his father at all. Scott still wondered if he ever would.

In algebra, Scott glanced up from his work to see Daniel staring at him from two rows away. After their eyes met for a moment, Daniel returned to his own work and Scott to his. Actually, the same type of thing had been happening during his other morning classes. Most of the time, it would be one of his teammates but not every time. He even found some of his teachers scrutinizing him.

Scott was beginning to feel more than a little self-conscious by mid morning. He figured some of the attention was genuine concern, but, at the same time, a fair portion of it was probably curiosity about such a quick recovery. It crossed his mind that perhaps some might think he had feigned the severity of some of the injuries he had experienced during the game. He certainly hoped not. Perhaps he should have worn his arm in a sling or at least put a limp in his walk. After all, they had wanted to take him off to County General the night before.

By lunchtime, all the teenager wanted to do was to get something from the cafeteria and find a nice, deserted spot to eat and not answer any more questions about how he was feeling or to talk about the game. One of the oak trees at the west end of the gym afforded the desired privacy, and there he ate. Of course, even though he did not want to talk about Thursday night, that did not mean he could keep from thinking about it and would not have resented Mrs. Donovan's company, if it meant a chance to ask her more questions. Just the same, he still held a few uncomfortable feelings about her; however, he equated those feelings with the ones he had had when he had first met his father. 

It was one thing to go and be a spectator in a theater showing a science fiction movie. It was quite another matter to be an active participant in the real thing. At least, he thought gratefully, the plot line resembled 'E.T.' more than it did 'Aliens'. If there were any monsters in Scott's story, they did not come from a place any farther away than an office on the east coast of the United States. Anyone who referred to his dad as an 'it' instead of a person did not fit his definition of human. The game eventually entered his mind again, running his thoughts full circle, and once more he wondered why his dad seemed so reluctant to talk about his coach.

The sun moved past its mid-day point. Scott was soon no longer sitting in the shade but in the warm sunshine, and he almost drifted off to sleep. While his father had altered his physical condition to correct the injuries from the game, he was still tired, and the warmth of the sun only made the drowsiness he was feeling harder to control. Therefore, when he felt a touch on his shoulder, he thought it was one of his friends letting him know he better get going. However, when he looked up, it turned out not to be one of the other teenagers at all.

"Hello, Scott," Eric greeted him. "It's good to see you at school today."

Scott immediately stood up. "At least it's Friday," he said. It was the only thing he could get out. The man had startled him.

"You did very well last night," Eric told him.

Scott shrugged. "I got in a few lucky shots, I guess."

Eric placed a hand on Scott's left shoulder. "More than a little luck, I'd say," he remarked. The physical contact was more than enough to confirm absolutely his suspicions and the conclusions he had made the night before. The injuries Scott had received during the game were now nonexistent except for the bruises on his face, which had not been removed for appearance's sake, he concluded.

Scott swallowed. The man's eyes were making him strangely uneasy again. "Mason Corners has a good team," he said. "And they're team players. You can't ask for much more."

"Being part of the team," Eric noted. "That's not something you're used to, is it, Scott?"

The boy frowned a little, not at all sure what the man was intimating. "Sir?"

Eric's eyes altered to an even less readable expression. "I would say you've done very well, though—considering." His hand moved down from Scott's shoulder, stopped just below the boy's elbow, and closed his fingers around his arm.

"If you're talking about the way my dad and I have to move around, it's..."

Eric's grip tightened significantly, almost painfully. "I'm talking about the reason, Scott. Or perhaps I should phrase it, 'necessity.'"

The hold on his arm had been the first real sign of a threat, but the man's words removed any doubt. Scott's reaction was reflexive. He tried to wrench away, pushing against the man's arm with his free hand.

"Let go!"

Eric immediately took hold of Scott's wrist of the retaliating hand and tightened his grip further on the left arm, causing the boy to flinch. "Stop it," he ordered firmly, but not loudly, and Scott felt something besides the hold on his arms. That something was inside his head, and he found he could not resist it. He calmed down immediately, and Eric released his wrist and loosened the grip he had on his arm.

"Come with me, Scott," Eric said, still talking quietly, and led the teenager toward the south side of the gym and the parking area. Scott found himself compelled to follow, in spite of the fact that his mind was screaming at him to do anything but go with the man. What was happening to him?

At the far corner of the parking lot was Eric's Camaro. He unlocked the passenger's door and pulled on Scott's arm as a gesture for him to get in. Still unable to refuse, Scott climbed inside and sat down. One hand still around the boy's arm, Eric knelt down behind the open door, opened the glove compartment, and reached inside to pull out a piece of nylon cord.

"Lean forward," he told Scott urging him with a slight pull on the arm he was holding.

Scott's heart increased its pace with each command, and when the man pulled his arm around to his back and then reached for the other, Scott's fear overrode any other feelings. McKinnon was going to bind his hands, and he found that he still could not retaliate in any fashion. The man tied the cord tightly around his wrists, and at the last tug, Scott winched.

"Hey!" he protested. "Leave a little room for circulation, will ya?"

Eric offered no comment, finished the knot and pulled Scott back against the seat and then released him. When he met the boy's eyes this time, he saw anger in them. It was as he had expected. Eric punched down the lock and then closed the door.

While Scott had learned a great deal about curbing his temper since being with his father, this particular situation did not qualify, to his way of thinking. Where the FSA was concerned, Scott figured all bets were off when it came to congeniality and cooperation. Over the past several months, he had been arrested, dragged out of schools and homes, chased countless times, handcuffed, shot at and shot—in the back—tranquilized and caged. Now he was tied up again and this time, locked in a car with someone who had badly abused his trust.

The rise in emotion came in a rush, especially after Eric had released him, and he was now feeling a little light-headed. He did not understand why, but now that the man no longer had hold of him, his head was clear again, and he had control of his actions. However, that did him no good, since he was now was bound and the car door locked. Why had he been unable to act when there had been an honest chance of escape? He had tangled with more than one of the agents at a time before and had eluded them. What had been so different this time? The questions aroused his fear further, along with concern for his father.

Eric walked around the front of the car and got inside. Scott followed him with his eyes and continued to stare at him as they drove out of the parking lot and away from the school. Eric glanced over to the boy a couple of times and noted that his expression did not alter as time passed.

"So much anger, Scott," Eric said. "I have to tell you that after your unaggressive manner last night during the game, it surprises me."

"I suppose you'd like being kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Eric had to think for a moment about what he had heard concerning the term. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not kidnapped."

"Oh, of course not," the teenager agreed caustically, turning away for a moment in disgust. They were now out of town and on the state highway leading in the direction of the national park. "The government doesn't 'kidnap' people." He looked back at the man. "What do you call it? Protective custody? Arrest on the grounds of national security?" Again he turned away, trying to restrain his temper. However, he could not say what he had to say without seeing the man's face and his reactions, if any, to his words, and he looked back. "Why can't you and Fox and the rest of the FSA just leave us alone?" he asked hotly.

Eric looked away from the highway and into the boy's eyes questioningly. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"We're no threat to national security or whatever it is you think we are," Scott insisted more strongly, ignoring what seemed to be an obvious attempt to evade his question. "My dad wouldn't hurt anybody. He can't! It's not his way!" There was exasperation in the teenager's voice, and the agitation was putting him very close to tears. He leaned back, but a little too hard, and the cord dug farther into his wrists. He bit down and said nothing, turning again to look out of the Camaro's side window.

He readjusted himself a little to relieve the pressure on his hands and began trying to figure out what this man, who had pretended to be his teacher and friend, had in mind for him and his father. Nothing seemed to add up the way it should. He thought over the last few weeks carefully when everything had started going crazy—or rather crazier than normal—which was right after he had had the weird dream. After a few minutes, he turned back to look at Eric—differently this time, with less anger and more intense concentration. There was something that really bothered him about the man's eyes, and the recurrence of his dream and its additions the night before started his mind running in a different, more frightening vein.

"Who are you?" he asked in a quiet, determined tone that revealed that he knew something now that he hadn't known a few moments before...something that had prompted this particular demand.

Eric looked over and held the boy's eyes for a moment before returning his attention to the road. They had entered the park area. "Your father and I once worked together—a long time ago," he told him.

Scott's heart stopped pounding quite so hard. If what the man said was true, then perhaps things were not as serious as they could have been or had seemed to be at first. It was true that the original Paul Forrester had had his share of enemies—some quite determined as enemies go—but somehow none of them compared to the threat that the FSA and Fox posed to the new Forrester.

"My dad take off on a deal or leave owing you money?" Scott asked, grasping from experiences they had already had with Forrester's past, hoping he wouldn't hear that another woman was involved this time.

Once more the man looked at him questioningly, as if he had no idea at all concerning Scott's reference. Looking back to the road, which was beginning to narrow, he answered, "We made charts and maps of many places."

There was absolutely no menace in the man's tone, but Scott's blood could not have been frozen colder by the words. He turned and stared—and kept staring. Only a very select few knew about his father's former occupation of map making. While there were those they had met over the months who knew his father's origin was not Earth, no one except his mother, Rachel, Antonia Wayburn, astronomer Katherine Bradford, and him knew his father had once charted the stars. No one else. Not even Fox. How could this man know?

Unless... Scott shivered again. His dream and the conversation between his father and the faceless stranger not only returned to mind, it screamed its own blatant interpretation. He leaned back, his head against the seat, his eyes closed. No wonder the dream had felt so very real. Somehow it had been a premonition of what was happening now. And the more he thought about it, the more his father's reactions to it began to make sense.

Scott swallowed, trying to push down the new fear that had replaced the dread of their capture by the government. Tears filled his eyes, and a few escaped down the sides of his face that he could not hold back. When he opened his eyes, the trees were becoming thicker and closer to the highway. It crossed his mind that, if McKinnon had not locked his door, he could have gotten it open and jumped out because they were not traveling very fast, and, after last night, the idea of a few minor injuries did not deter such thoughts. Actually, right now that aspect was the farthest from his mind. He did not care how he did it; he just knew he had to get away from this man and back to his father.

Eric stopped the car. With his mind carefully going over the details of his plan, he had not taken any particular notice of the change in the teenager. He got out, and Scott followed his movement as he walked around the car. Eric unlocked the passenger door and reached in for the boy's arm to help him out. Scott had a much better idea now of what had happened to him back at school when McKinnon had taken hold of him. He had seen his dad do it a few times when someone had been extremely upset or hysterical.

However, McKinnon was using the ability to control for a much different reason, and Scott did not intend to give him a second chance to use it on him if he could prevent it. He took the opportunity immediately, lunging out at the man. He cleared the car and managed to tackle McKinnon. Rolling away just out of the man's reach, he bumped rather hard against a tree. It knocked some of the wind out of him, but he took advantage of the tree trunk, using it as leverage to push himself up onto his knees and then to his feet. In another second, he was running. He vaguely heard McKinnon grumble something and then give a shout. Soon after, he heard the sounds of the man's running footsteps behind him.

Scott was a fast runner—no question—but he had cut across the park's normal path and into the forest. The uneven terrain was difficult enough to travel and gain any real speed, but Scott's hands were tied. It threw his balance off, as well as his normal running stride. He stumbled twice, but didn't fall; however, when he had to veer off to avoid a rather steep ravine, he lost what distance he had managed to get between himself and the man.

Eric saw him and simply cut through to his position. Scott began to hear McKinnon's footsteps more loudly and then the next thing he knew, he was on the ground. His right shoulder caught the worst of it, but the momentum of Eric's weight against Scott's much lighter frame cost the boy all his breath and a hard knock on the head as well. When Eric rose up on his knees and looked down, he saw that the teenager was unconscious.

Undeterred by the situation, Eric pulled Scott up by the shoulders and then bent down so that he could get him up and over his shoulder. He carried the teenager farther into the forest for about ten minutes.

When Scott woke up, it took a few seconds to piece back together where he was and what had happened, then he started struggling.

"Put me down!"

"I think not," Eric answered.

Scott swallowed, or at least tried to. The excitement, the run, the fall, and now being carried upside down were all having their effect. Added to that, the nosebleed had started again.

"I won't run," Scott told him.

"And I should trust you?" Eric quipped.

"You have my word."

"Your word," McKinnon repeated. "I'm afraid, Scott, that that's just not sufficient anymore."

"Look, my nose is bleeding. I can't breathe. If you don't put me down, I'm gonna be sick. Is that clear enough for you?" Scott said finally with a note of desperation. After all, it was the truth.

Eric stopped, sighed in resignation, and then bent down slightly and pulled Scott from his shoulder. However, not intending to allow a repeat episode of earlier events, he made sure he would start with a clear advantage. As soon as he had Scott's feet within a few inches of the ground, he simply let go and stepped back. Scott fell with a thud and a groan as he landed squarely on his back and hands. He looked up at the man in anger.

"Thanks," he told the man sarcastically, as he struggled to sit up. Each movement sent a new streak of pain up his arms. It was a few agonizing moments before he was able to be fairly certain that nothing had been broken when he fell. Everything was beginning to numb on him like it had the night before, which made being sure about anything extremely difficult. His hands were wet. He hoped it was only perspiration. There was certainly enough reason for it.

If there was one thing he was sure of, though, it was that he was scared. He tried to wipe some of the blood from his mouth onto a part of his shirt sleeve that he could reach. That put a strain on both his bruised shoulder and bound wrists, and it made him take in a sudden, involuntary breath. Of course, that reaction only made him start choking.

Eric relinquished his priorities for the moment and knelt down beside Scott. The teenager pulled back from him.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked, his voice hoarse, his tone extremely suspicious.

Eric reached into his pocket. "I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah, that's what you say." Scott retorted, still leaning away from the man.

However, Eric retrieved only a handkerchief and, taking hold of the back of Scott's head, pulled him toward him and used the handkerchief to wipe the boy's face. Again, Scott had no ability to resist, becoming almost drowsy. This time, though, it was for the best. The teenager's adrenaline level lowered, his heart rate slowed, and the nosebleed began to subside.

His breathing no longer the strain that it had been, Scott looked up into the man's eyes, but it was not with gratitude. He could not even force it for the gesture of help Eric had just afforded him. Then for a moment he felt a different touch, in his mind this time. While unable to withstand Eric's physical control over him, what he was trying now, Scott overrode almost immediately and rather contemptuously.

"No!" he told Eric, looking up into the man's eyes. "I won't let you take him!" His voice and tone was clear enough to understand both meaning and intention, even through the handkerchief.

"So, you know who I am now, I see," Eric returned, sitting back on his heels and releasing his hold on the boy. He was quite surprised at Scott's mental strength and perception. It had not been something he had expected from one whose parents were from different worlds, especially when one of them was from such a primitive world as this one.

"I know," Scott said. "I know who you are, and what you're here for. All I want to know is why?" The anger in his voice escalated quickly.

"If you know the answers to the first two, the third should be obvious," Eric said flatly.

"Your logic's as bad as some of those plays you were calling last night, 'Coach,'" Scott snapped, sarcasm squarely on the man's assumed title. Then he regretted the tone and words, because the reaction to them he saw in the man's eyes made him fear he might actually get hit for the blatant insult.

Eric stood up, turned, and stalked away from the teenager to cool his temper, which also gave Scott a few brief moments to settle himself a little. At least, the man had not taken the swing at him he had expected. Scott told himself he would certainly watch what he said a little better from now on and chastised himself for pushing his luck when he obviously had none to push.

From what he had seen of this man the last few weeks, he knew it was ridiculous to entertain any thoughts that McKinnon shared his father's disposition. Just because violence was so repugnant to his dad did not mean it was the same for this man. In fact, Scott had had a couple of pretty good demonstrations to the contrary already. McKinnon had obviously learned his emotional reactions from a completely different set of sources than Paul had.

Scott gathered his courage again and leveled his own anger. "He's my father. I have a right to know why you want to take him away from me."

There was such a sincere insistence in the boy's tone and something in the words themselves that made Eric turn back around. He stared at Scott for several moments, which seemed more like an eternity to the teenager.

"You have laws here—primitive—but laws nonetheless," Eric spoke. "And for disobeying those laws there are penalties."

"I won't argue that," Scott said. "But what does that have to do with my dad? He hasn't broken any laws here. In fact, he goes out of his way not to, no matter what someone does to him."

"The laws he has broken," Eric continued, "are our laws. When he left us, it was as...what I think you call here a 'renegade.' He is no more than a thief."

"I don't believe you," Scott retorted flatly.

"He altered transport orders on the last expedition he was a member of and stole a probe ship. What would you say that meant?" Eric flipped back at the boy.

"I'd say you're a liar," Scott said, the control on his temper swaying again. "What reason would my dad've had to steal a ship, like you claim?"

There was no hesitation in the answer. "To return here."

"He came back to help my mother and me," Scott returned defensively. "I don't understand why he'd have to go against any laws to do that."

It was apparent now to Eric that certain facts had been kept from the boy, and he appointed himself the task of rectifying that. "Your father's return to Earth had been forbidden by the High Council. This planet had been designated 'hostile' and further contact banned for over a thousand of your Earth years. Your father's actions were irrational, and the crimes he committed were flagrant assaults against our own civilization."

Eric stopped; his voice had risen in volume quite a bit his last few words. Too, the teenager's expression had gone from angered to stunned. Eric thought he should give them both a moment to settle after what had been said. Eric's emotions were definitely getting more and more difficult to control. The present situation only heightened his awareness to his own emotional instability.

Even though Scott was stunned by what he had just learned, it didn't change his predicament or the way he felt about his father. "I don't care what you say he's done. He's not hurting anybody by being here. Why can't you and Fox and everyone see that?"

"The decision of the Council of Elders..." Eric started again, but the teenager cut him off.

"You want to talk laws? Let's talk about the laws you're breaking right here," he snapped. "Start with the fact you tied me up and brought me out here against my will. That is kidnapping, whether you'll admit to it or not."

"These particular circumstances are regrettable, but necessary to the completion of my mission. You will be allowed to leave after..."

"After you have my dad," Scott interjected.

The man saw no reason to deny the obvious. "As you say," he told him.

Scott pushed himself up on one knee. "No, Mr. McKinnon, you say. I say, no way! You're not taking my father anywhere."

"There is nothing you can do to stop me, Scott."

Eric's flat tone sent a chill through the teenager that no icy wind could duplicate. Scott watched the man as he reached into his pocket. When he turned to face the boy, he opened his hand to reveal three spheres. Choosing one, he returned the others to his pocket.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding the sphere in his open palm.

"I know," Scott answered.

"Good. Then I won't have to explain." He knelt down in front of Scott again. "I want you to summon your father to this place."

"No."

Eric sighed. "Scott, you keep insisting on making this difficult."

"Yeah, it's all my fault," the teenager returned sarcastically. "I got here all by myself."

"I brought you here without the use of force," Eric said.

"Tell my hands that," the boy shot back, thinking that McKinnon's definitions of things were more than just a little off-centered.

"I tied you because I knew you wouldn't remain with me willingly after you found out my intentions. It was a precaution, nothing more. You got hurt as a result of your own actions."

"Spare me the dialog," Scott told him, not wanting to hear anymore of McKinnon's logic.

Eric took a deep breath. When he spoke, his tone was strained and once again displayed his rising anger. "Since my arrival, I've monitored many of your TV programs."

"Yeah, I can tell you learned a lot," Scott said, not succeeding very well at curbing the sarcasm in his tone.

"You'd be surprised," Eric returned more quietly. "I have observed a great deal. Your television has shown me much about Earth customs." Eric heard a noise in the distance and turned to look. It was only a small animal, but he continued to scan the area as he spoke. "At first, the violence I saw was very disturbing to me. Then I began to understand the importance it holds to this civilization. Without it, there would be no change—either for good or bad. I also found it very common in sports. Take the game last night. It's amazing how a few little overt actions on the part of one team will spur the opposing team to fight to win that much harder."

"It was you," Scott blurted out unexpectedly, and Eric turned back to face him. "I thought my dad..." Scott started but switched from speculation to accusation. "But I knew that was crazy. If he'd been the one, all those injuries wouldn't have happened like they did."

"You're so sure of that?" Eric retorted, almost questioningly.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Scott told him. "My dad wouldn't hurt anybody or anything. He's not like you - not at all!"

"No," Eric contradicted, shaking his head, "There you're wrong. We are the same. We have simply traveled different paths since our arrivals here. While your father has obviously tried to ignore the violence of your society, I've learned of its advantages, and how it is sometimes quite necessary to achieve one's goals. You see, Scott, like your father, I saw it as most terrifying in the beginning, but I've learned how very useful it can be—even exciting."

Scott's apprehensive expression turned to disgust. "Talk about problems; you've got a big one," he quipped, caught up with what the man was saying. He realized the mistake of his words almost before he had them all out of his mouth. The overly candid remark, along with the tone he had used, set off an already unstable fuse.

With no warning, other than an explosive change in his eyes, Eric reached out and took hold of Scott's arm just below the shoulder with one hand and grasped a handful of the boy's hair to jerk his head back, forcing him to look at him. Scott let out a short yelp of surprise, returning his other knee to the ground to maintain his balance as he glared at the man.

"You are what I've heard the other teachers refer to as a 'smart mouth'," Eric told him. "Not at all what I have come to expect from you."

"I guess you just bring out the best in people," Scott retorted, his voice strained from the position his head had been forced into at the moment. He was trying to rein in his fear, which was replacing the anger in leaps now. However, the sarcasm was still much too evident in his tone, despite his efforts, and the bravado only got his hair pulled harder. He flinched and concluded he better put a tight gag on further incidental remarks on his part. Besides, if this man was indeed from the same planet as his father, McKinnon knew what he was really feeling anyway. Right now that was just plain scared.

"My primary point, Scott," Eric said, his voice under restraint again, although his grip remained unchanged, "is that violence, in varying degrees, can be used to manipulate most any situation. Say, to gain someone's attention. I do have your attention now, don't I?"

"Undivided," the teenager forced through clenched teeth against the pain.

The man bent closer to Scott's ear. "I have also observed many instances where it is even used to invoke cooperation."

Scott shut his eyes a moment, his thoughts racing in search of a way out of his predicament. Options were at a premium. How much could he count on McKinnon holding to the principles of his home world, as his father did? If he learned things in the same way as his father—with total recall—perhaps the threats were a bluff. It was a common practice in movies and on TV. Of course—on the other hand—so was carrying out those same threats. That thought put Scott back at square one. How much like his father was McKinnon? Was he like him at all? Were he and his father equal as far as psionic powers were concerned?

Scott had already seen that McKinnon had more than one sphere with him, and he remembered all too clearly the reminder of the night before when Rachel and his dad had talked about how the sphere's power could be used up if too much of the energy was dispelled at one time. In a confrontation, where would that leave his father? And if McKinnon was not bluffing, where did that leave him personally? In trouble, it seemed...no matter which way he looked at it. If he did not do what McKinnon was demanding, how far might the man go to force him? It was something he did not want to think about.

If he summoned his father, it could mean losing him all over again—and forever this time. That, in turn, meant foster homes and no more chances of finding his mother until he was at least eighteen. No; correction. Losing his father was no less than a one-way trip to a little glass room, courtesy of the FSA—for the rest of his life. Those were his so-called "choices." The old adage of 'between a rock and a hard place' took on new meaning. As much as the fact frightened him, Scott realized he did not have a choice.

"I'm waiting," McKinnon spoke again, sounding more menacing this time, and once more tightening the grip of both hands. He believed he had allowed more than enough time for the teenager to think about his situation and make up his mind. Scott opened his eyes to look squarely at the man, as he demanded, "I want an answer—now!"

Some of Scott's fear turned into a different kind of determination, and that made his voice stronger when he did answer. "You already heard it, McKinnon. My answer was no, still is, and it's going to stay that way."

"I'm sorry you feel you have to force my hand," Eric told Scott. He released the boy's hair and arm and stood up.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything." Scott returned, glaring up at the man. "You're the one making all the rules."

"What I'm asking you to do is very simple."

"I'm not going to help you trap my dad," Scott said angrily.

"We'll see," Eric said, reaching down to pull Scott to his feet.

Face-to-face now with the man, Scott took a deep breath to push down the fear that continued to rise. "I'm not calling him."

Eric did not respond verbally this time. Instead, he pulled Scott around a few steps then pushed him back hard. A tree was standing not a yard behind the teenager, and he hit it with enough force, not only to knock the breath from him, but to crack an already bruised shoulder blade. The man was extremely strong. Scott sank down to his knees and bit his lip against the pain. When he looked up, he saw Eric standing over him...studying him...studying his reaction. Resenting the man's power over him, he leaned against the tree, and using it for support, struggled to get to his feet. He could have saved himself the pain it caused him because Eric jerked him back up before he was halfway.

"I don't want to continue this," Eric said.

"That makes two of us," Scott returned, trying to get his breath back and his mind away from whatever the man had in mind.

"Then do as I said and let this be between your father and me. There is no reason it should concern you."

"You just don't understand, do you? You don't betray someone you love." He held the man's eyes a moment before adding, "And I happen to love my dad."

"Both loyalty and love are emotions I have found most curious and unstable at best," Eric countered.

"Like I said, you don't understand," Scott clipped back,

"I understand that you're being unnecessarily stubborn—a fact that will only cause you more pain. After what happened at last night's game, I'm surprised at your decision." He took hold of Scott's arm when the boy took an involuntary step back.

Scott had finally been able to regain his balance enough to resist and stood firmly against the tug. He remembered the time he had been threatened one morning in a classroom before school started. He had talked his way out of that situation, but it had involved boys his own age, who had been bullying him at school. McKinnon, on the other hand, was neither a boy nor a bully, and Scott knew there could be no words to avert his intentions other than to agree to his terms.

"What are you going to do?"

"Whatever it takes to make you understand what must be."

Scott's eyes remained fixed on Eric. He took a deep breath, hoping to steady his voice. "I won't call him here," he repeated once more.

Eric, all his threats a failure, felt angrier now than ever and jerked Scott toward him, backhanding him across the cheek with his closed fist.

The blow caused the boy to lose his balance, and he fell back, colliding with the tree behind him again, scraping the side of his face and jaw line and banging his collarbone. Eric took hold of Scott's hands and pushed them up toward the middle of his back.

A line of pain ran from the boy's wrists up to his shoulders, the damaged one shrieking outrage. With his arms in such a strained and precarious position, Scott couldn't move. The one attempt he made to do so sent another wave of pain up both arms. It told him that if he resisted too hard or in the wrong way, he ran a risk of having them broken. He couldn't steady his breathing, and his head was pounding. His giddiness made it impossible to think clearly, but he heard Eric's voice clearly enough when he said his name. Again, the voice was very close to his ear.

"Scott?"

The boy could not voice a return.

"Do you really wish to take this further?"

Scott shook his head slowly. Perhaps he was stubborn, but not a liar.

Eric released a sigh. "Good. You will..."

"No!" Scott interrupted with more defiance than Eric expected possible at this point.

The man still held Scott's wrists tightly with one hand, but pulled him around by the shoulder just far enough so that the boy would have to look at him. The teenager had been a great deal more resilient than he had anticipated from the very beginning. If his emotions had not already taken over to rule his actions, Eric might have realized that he was losing ground in the situation rather than gaining the advantage he wanted. However, Eric's emotions had a definite edge on his control, and the boy's defiant tone only served to refuel his temper.

Scott felt the man's hand tighten over his wrists, then his breath was forced from him when Eric, using the leverage he had on his shoulder, suddenly pulled up on his hands again, this time almost to the middle of his back. Scott's arms almost refused to bend at such an angle, but the pain was diminished somewhat this time because shock had brought on a blessed numbness. The man shifted his stance, drawing his hand back to hit him again. Scott turned his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall. When it didn't, the boy opened his eyes to find the man struggling against a large hand gripping his wrist.

Eric had indeed had every intention of striking Scott again, but something—someone—had taken hold of his wrist. He turned to look into the face of a pair of blue eyes that held more pain in them than what he had just seen in the teenager's.

"Why are you doing this? What possible reason could you have to treat my son this way?" Paul asked, too hurt at what he saw to feel even anger at the spectacle. However, his words were demanding enough, as was the grip he held on McKinnon's wrist.

Eric sized Paul up quickly. He had seen him in town and at the game the night before with Rachel Donovan but had not known for sure that he was the one for which he had been searching. Now he did. The two were fairly matched in build, though Eric was a bit taller. He straightened and released a tight breath, pulling his emotions back inside.

"I have searched for you for many months," he told Paul quietly. "It's good to have my search finally at an end."

Paul's emotions were not as easily settled. "Let go of my son," he told Eric pointedly, his eyes demanding more than his voice could.

Eric obliged him, releasing Scott's hands and stepping back from him. Without McKinnon holding him up, Scott's legs would not support his weight. He sank down to his knees and back against the tree. Paul released the man to go to Scott, but Eric stepped between the two.

Paul looked from Scott back to Eric, and a different sensation tried to overwhelm him.

"Why? What reason!" he demanded again, a definite edge in his voice and in a tone Scott had never heard.

"It was my desire to get you here," Eric answered. "And Scott did not wish to comply with my request to call you. It was his obstinacy that created the circumstances. But since you have found us on your own, it appears the measures were unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" Paul's tone was one of disbelief...anger, and Scott could actually feel the desire his father had at that moment to lunge at the man. It was oddly frightening to him.

"Yes," Eric returned, undeterred and obviously unaware that his methods did not bear the justification he believed them to hold. "It appears that your powers have not diminished, as was anticipated after your last visit here. You have learned to compensate. That is good."

Paul looked down at Scott. There was a strong warning, mixed with the fear in the boy's eyes. Paul tried again to swallow, his emotions tearing at him as he looked back at the man. "You do this and then talk to me as if nothing has happened," he said to Eric, the disbelief still heavy in his voice.

"I did what had to be done."

"And last night. You used your powers to alter the events of the game, didn't you?"

"It has become imperative for me to complete my mission quickly. I have been in this place too long."

"And the other boys, besides Scott, who were hurt in that game, were they part of your mission as well?" He shook his head. "I cannot believe that the Council would condone such methods in dealing with the inhabitants of this planet. Any planet."

"You are hardly one to talk of Council rulings."

"I came here to help Jenny Hayden and my son, not endanger the well-being of anyone who lived here."

"In a hostile environment such as this," Eric countered, "how can you possibly know the difference, when they don't know themselves?"

"How can you not?" Paul responded with dismay.

Eric straightened, obviously scornful of the reprimand. "I think we have spoken enough of this. It should be forgotten."

"I can't forget," Paul returned, the disbelief turning now to sadness rather than contempt. However, his concern for Scott still held priority. He wanted to get him away from this man and out of the line of confrontation that he feared was going to take place. Scott's dream was pressing on his mind. Too much of it was based in reality to ignore, and after seeing what McKinnon was already capable of doing, he truly feared for his son's life. He could not logically dismiss the idea as being uncharacteristic behavior for one of his own kind. In his present form, his fellow traveler had shown himself to be quite dangerous. Paul sidestepped and started forward, but Eric kept himself between father and son.

"Dad, he wants to take you back with him," Scott interjected, not quite succeeding in controlling either tone or volume.

"I know," Paul returned; his own voice leveled again for Scott's sake.

"His emotions are strong," Eric observed.

"He's frightened," Paul said. "Let me go to him."

Eric shook his head against it. "There's been too much delay already. We have a long journey ahead of us."

It was Paul who shook his head this time. "You'll make that journey alone. I will not leave my son."

"You refuse to honor this decision of the Council as well?" Eric asked.

"I will not leave him," Paul repeated.

"You must understand that I was chosen to come here; placed under the strictest of trusts that I would complete the mission given me. I must honor that trust. It is my duty to the Council...to our home."

"This is my home now, and I must honor the responsibility I have to my son. If I leave, he will be alone."

"This is your final word?"

"Yes," Paul told him.

"No!" Scott blurted out. While some of the words were different, too many were the same as his nightmare, and they all held the same consequences.

Scott's cry caught Eric by surprise, and he turned to the teenager, Paul took advantage of the distraction and made a dive for Eric, hoping to tackle him. Eric countered the move and threw a punch in the process. The blow caught Paul across the cheek, and he fell back dazed. Eric immediately bore down on him. With all attention averted from him, Scott pushed himself to his feet, the whole time wondering if his dad would ever learn how to dodge a punch. Paul managed to kick Eric off him, and the man staggered back. Scott threw himself against Eric to knock him off balance. It worked, except that Scott went down with him. The teenager rolled away from the man but was unable to get back up any farther than onto his knees when he saw Eric reach back into his pocket.

"Dad!" he yelled, the warning strong in his voice. Then a light, as bright as a sudden flash of lightning, filled the area where the three were. Scott closed his eyes against it. The next thing he knew he was pulled up from his knees and back to his feet. Thinking it was McKinnon, the frightened boy struggled against the strong hands holding him. Then he heard his father's voice, which immediately dispelled the fear.

"This way," Paul told him.

"Dad?" Scott's relief was almost overwhelming. He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the light was still too bright.

Paul got an arm around his son's waist and a hand under his shoulder. The contact proved painful to both. Although it was in different ways, the source was the same—the injuries inflicted during Scott's time with McKinnon.

Paul ran with Scott for about fifty yards then up a steep incline. Like being blinded by a camera flash, Scott could not see anything but spots and wondered how his dad was able to maneuver them both so well through the dense foliage and over the rocky terrain. A few more yards put them at the top of the hill. Scott saw someone in the distance running toward them and pushed back against his dad to stop him.

"Dad, who is it? I still can't see."

Paul urged him forward. "It's all right, Scott. It's Rachel. She came with me to find you."

Scott's vision finally cleared enough for him to distinguish the woman's features as she met them.

"From what I could see, Eric's pretty disoriented and confused as to what happened to the both of you," Rachel told them. "I kept the light barrier up as long as I dared. There's just too much wildlife in the area." Her tone was apologetic. "I didn't want to frighten them too much."

"It was enough time," Paul said.

"You did that?" Scott asked, but Rachel's thoughts were running along a different path.

"A little trick I learned with this," she said, holding up her crystal. Then she spoke to Paul again. "I'm sure you're well aware that it won't take Eric long to recover."

"I know." Paul returned as he lowered Scott to the ground. Kneeling beside his son, he took his face in his hands. Rachel also knelt and started unknotting the cords around Scott's wrists.

"Are you all right?" Paul asked him.

"I am now," Scott answered, but seeing his father's questionable glance, he added, "Really, I think I'm more scared than hurt."

Paul glanced back to Rachel, who immediately averted her eyes from his and back to the cords. When the last knot was untied, the blood rushed back into Scott's hands with a vengeance. He flinched, trying to flex his fingers and move his arms. His left arm did not give much trouble, although it was stiff; but when pulled his right arm to the front, the shoulder blade protested.

"Ow!" Scott groaned, reaching up to grab his shoulder.

Paul's hand also went to the shoulder, and when he touched it, he felt the stab of pain that had caused his son's outcry. Taking hold of Scott's other hand, just above the wrist, he saw that both hands were the same—red and swelling now that the ropes were off. The boy's wrists were rubbed raw, and the cuffs of his shirt were stained, as were the cords which now lay on the ground.

"I'm sorry," Paul told him sincerely.

"Don't worry about it. I don't care," Scott returned. "You just stay away from that guy. I believe him when he says he'll take you back with him." His words were honest ones, and the two exchanged a few silent words as well. Then Scott took a deep breath. "We better get out of here. He has several of the spheres. He's bound to use one to find us."

Paul nodded his agreement.

"So Eric's like you," Rachel said to Paul, "Someone from your planet?"

"They may be from the same place, but McKinnon's not anything like my dad," Scott defended. "He's..."

Paul reached up and put his hand behind Scott's neck affectionately, and the boy stopped. "Stay here with Rachel," he told him quietly. "You'll be safer with her." He got up quickly to leave, not realizing how Scott might react.

"Wait a minute!" Scott protested strongly, up on his knees before Rachel was able to get a grip on him. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "What do you think you're going to do?"

"I'm going to talk to him," Paul answered.

"Talk?" Scott's tone rose measurably. "Dad, the guy's dangerous! He's not like you," he insisted again. "He's learned it all differently. You can't trust what he says."

"Scott," Paul started to comment, but held it back and took a deep breath before he spoke again. "Try to understand."

He looked at Rachel, and the brief exchange that followed was a silent one. Then Rachel pulled the teenager closer to her. "Don't worry; I'll stay with him. You just take care of yourself."

Paul nodded, turned away, and started back down the hill. Scott tried again to get up, but Rachel's hold on him kept him down. He did not have enough of his wind back yet to put up sufficient resistance, unless, of course, he hit her. After what he had just encountered from McKinnon, that was really the last thing he wanted to do.

"Dad," he called. "Please..." However, his father was already halfway down the hill, and he dared not shout any louder. The rest of his plea became almost a whisper as he sat back on the ground. "Don't let him take you."

Rachel laid his head on her shoulder and rested her cheek against it. "Eric McKinnon will be meeting your father on more even ground this time, Scott. He doesn't have you for a hostage to use as a weapon against him."

Scott raised his head to look at the woman. She was more than just sympathetic to his position. He felt that very strongly, but, still, it was action he wanted right now rather than sympathy.

"I can't just sit here and let some overzealous alien carry off my dad," he said determinedly, but holding a quiet tone of voice. He felt so desperate at that moment, he would have welcomed one of Fox's untimely arrivals—anything that would serve as interference.

"Scott, I understand," Rachel told him. "But we have to give your dad a chance to try it his way."

"McKinnon won't listen," Scott insisted. "His mind's set on taking him back."

Rachel put her hand to his cheek. His agitation was not helping his present physical condition. "Eric won't take your father, Scott. I promise you. If Paul can't dissuade him,..." She stopped and looked into the boy's eyes. The pain she saw there tugged at her heart. "I'll stop Eric myself," she said. "Somehow, some way, I'll make sure that when he leaves, he leaves alone."

The teenager had no reply to such a promise as the woman was giving him. He did not even know whether it was something that was within or beyond her capabilities, but it felt good to hear someone say it—and with as much conviction as Rachel had just spoken it. He threw his arm around her neck in an almost choking hug.

"Well, I'm glad that meets with your approval," she said, with a startled chuckle. However, her thoughts remained serious overall. Although Scott had used his left arm to hug her, pressure had still been put on the injured right one, and he failed to stifle the groan. Rachel had put her arms around the boy to return the embrace. She now moved her hand up over the shoulder blade and applied pressure over and around the cracked bone and with her other hand, she applied careful pressure to the nerves at the back of his neck.

Scott began to experience a gentle drowsiness that made him relax and lean more heavily against Rachel. "What are you doing?" he asked, uneasy at the feeling. He tried to move, but couldn't, and that fact frightened him.

"Just take it easy," the woman told him. "I'm trying to help, not hurt you. It's something I learned in one of the back regions of China."

If he had any other doubts or questions, he was now too sleepy to ask. In another moment he felt nothing at all.

Rachel pulled Scott's arm from around her neck and laid the now sleeping teenager on his side on the ground beside her. He would rest for several minutes. The shoulder was not repaired. Paul had that ability; she did not. What she had done was to numb the pain around the injured area. It would last a couple of hours at least. The pressure at the back of his neck had put him to sleep. When he woke up, he would be in a much calmer state and in a better position mentally to think through what had to be done. And for the minutes she had to herself, the woman put her mind on the action she might have to take herself to keep the promise she had given to the boy. Her first thoughts led her to what Sam had always taught her: 'grab for the offensive before your opposition can.'

 

Eric's anger had returned quickly after the light had died away. Not only had the boy been taken from him, his quarry had eluded him again as well. However, while he had lost the first round, the second was surely to be in his favor. The proximity of the explorer and his son was a definite advantage. He could now use one of the spheres to locate them, and this time he would be prepared. He would not underestimate his opponent again. Pulling a sphere from his pocket, he issued his mental demands for a directional fix.

At first, his attempts were met with resistance from the energy sphere because his transmissions contained certain erratic emotional interferences. His temper was being fueled by indignation at the man's words, which had not only been distracting, but most accusing. As Eric saw it, any accusations made were his to make. After all, his sole purpose for being on the planet was to find his former companion and return him to their home world for judgment. There had been no stipulations placed on the methods to be used to complete that task. Therefore, he saw no reason to be condemned for the actions he had taken. While guilt and remorse had been among the first things Paul had had to learn and deal with, Eric's tutelage had begun and evolved very differently in an atmosphere where conscience took second place to winning.

The light of the sphere Eric held in his hand dulled, and he altered his direction again. Again the sphere's light lessened, but on the third direction change, its light brightened. Eric started walking again, his mind intensely upon the object, and the noises around him gradually faded to obscurity. A few more moments passed before he stopped again. The sphere sat glistening in his hand as he looked into the grouping of trees just ahead of him. A man stepped out into the clearing.

"The sphere isn't necessary," Paul told Eric. "I've come so we could talk."

"That time has passed," said Eric.

"Time should be made," Paul returned, taking another step toward him.

"Why are you making this difficult?" Eric asked, straightening and shifting his weight into a more defensive stance.

"I'm not making anything difficult. It's very simple. I can't go with you, and I want you to understand why."

"The boy," Eric answered for him.

"Yes!" Paul returned more emphatically. "Why can't you see that it's important for me to stay with him?"

Eric remained firm. "The decision of the Council must be upheld."

"The decision of the Council was unjust."

"Impossible," Eric returned pointedly. "Our laws have served us for over a thousand generations."

"One thing I've learned here," Paul told him, "is that no law—no matter how well it is conceived and written or how wise the lawmakers—is never perfect. It can't serve all people in all things."

"You can't compare...," Eric started to protest.

But Paul was feeling the same frustration now that he had when he had been called before the Council. He started forward again, his right fist clenched in front of him, although not in hostility. He cut Eric's comment before he could finish. "But you must compare them. You have to experience both to see that one cannot dictate for the other."

Eric took a half step back against Paul's advance and put up a hand in warning for him not to try to come closer. Paul stopped walking, but he continued to speak.

"On our world everything has been ordered and categorized so that everyday decisions are no longer necessary. We suppressed our emotions because we thought they hindered intellectual advancement. Over the generations, our laws have been gradually altered to serve a totally unemotional, technological society. Either something 'is' or it 'is not;' there are no longer any variables.

The Council of Elders ruled as they did on my request because they didn't truly understand. There are circumstances that can promote exceptions to a law that is not a scientific fact. We've explored other worlds to learn, yet we measure everything against our own civilization. We may be a thousand years ahead of this planet's technology and even its cultural structure, but we've lost the compassion its beings have that at one time promoted our own unity."

"Your argument is a compelling one," Eric told him. "But the judgment has already been made, and I can't alter it or the purpose of my mission."

"Can't or won't?" Paul asked sadly. He had once stated his case to another who wouldn't hear. George Fox, he thought, had more in common with his own world than he himself did—something Fox would not appreciate knowing, he was sure.

Eric's expression altered for a moment, then hardened again. "The time I was forced to spend looking for you went well beyond what I expected. I do not wish to lengthen my stay any further. This talk is ended. Your time here has ended."

Paul's stomach began to knot. His heart was already beating heavily and had been since he had first learned that Scott had been taken from his school. The threat was immediate and a confrontation imminent, and his adrenaline level was topping out. It was difficult to control his thoughts, most of which were concerns for Scott.

"Discard this form you have taken, and we will leave," came Eric's next order.

"I have no intention of returning with you," Paul said, trying hard to keep his tone of voice level, even though his emotions made him want to shout in anger at the man.

"Discard it, or I will force you from it!" Eric opened his hand to display the sphere, glowing brightly again.

To reinforce his threat, Eric mentally created a bolt of lightning that cut through a young fir to Paul's right. The tree fell toward Paul, who jumped back only a breath before it crashed to the ground where he had been standing. He threw a look of disbelief at Eric, who stood quite unabashed by what he had just done. As much as he hated the idea of having to succumb to a physical altercation, it seemed he was being given no choice. He reached into his pocket for his sphere, knowing it was the only way he could successfully counter the other man's efforts to destroy Paul Forrester.

The second energy bolt was directed squarely at him, and he dived out of the way; however, the explosion created behind him where the bolt had hit knocked him forward several feet. As Eric released a third, Paul directed one of his own in retaliation, but it was toward the other energy bolt, not Eric. The two lights collided in a burst of sparks and a thunderous crash.

Eric's first sphere spent, he reached for the second. Paul was already having second thoughts about meeting this particular enemy head-on. He got back to his feet just as Eric threw another energy bolt. It missed his head by only a breath; however, the redwood behind him was not as lucky. The tree crashed, ripping branches as it came down. Paul heard the high-pitched, frightened screech of a large cat behind him, and he did not need to look to know that the animal was in serious trouble.

Concentrating on his attack on Paul, Eric ignored the cries of the trapped cat. Paul had to hit the ground again to avoid the next bolt that had been aimed at him—shoulder level this time. Paul tossed one in Eric's direction, a bolt large enough and close enough to force his opponent to dive for cover as well and then momentarily took his attention away from the other man to attempt to help the animal, an innocent caught in the line of fire.

It was a bobcat, and she was hung among the webbing of branches of the fallen redwood. She was in the area by no accident. Her den with two cubs was nearby, and she had refused to leave them in light of the danger. She had hidden to watch the humans who had entered her territory to wage a small war against each other. Now she was caught.

Paul made use of the seconds he had to survey the problem and then applied the sphere's energy to create a repulser beam to raise the redwood just far enough to allow the bobcat to creep out from under the weight of its branches. She bounded clear, turned back once to look at her unexpected benefactor then ran into the brush. Paul's attention was immediately pulled back toward Eric when lightning struck the ground inches from where he was kneeling. He dropped down behind the first fallen tree and wondered what he was going to do next because his sphere had been spent during the rescue.

The tree bark near his shoulder splintered under a volley, keeping him down, but another feline screech got him to look up again. The bobcat had decided to repay her debt not only in kind, but immediately. She had circled around to where Eric was standing, and she leaped at him from the thicket. She had no intention of engaging the human long-term, especially a human who tossed death from his hand at every turn. She hit him just hard enough to knock him off balance and to his knees. She rolled, but ended back on her feet and ran away again into the underbrush.

Paul took advantage of the break in the attack, got up and raced toward Eric. The man had already recovered, although a little shaken, and was back on his feet. Paul hit him low at the knees and took him down in a tackle that rolled them both very near the edge of a steep drop-off. The sphere Eric had been able to hang onto when the cat had sprung at him now flew out of his grip and into the opposite direction from where they landed. That line of attack lost to him for the moment, he immediately changed his tactics and caught Paul in a wrestling hold. With an arm around Paul's neck and a knee in the middle of his back, the advantage was clearly his.

 

Scott jerked awake at the sound of thunder and sat up, grabbing instinctively for what had been his injured shoulder, but the pain, he realized, was hardly noticeably at all now. The crash of thunder sounded again, louder this time, while he was trying to reorient himself. A glance above him into clear skies was hardly reassuring. Neither was the fact that he was alone.

"Rachel?" he called, looking around the immediate area hurriedly then down into the forest below him. "Rachel?" he tried again, but another clap of what still resembled thunder from an electrical storm drowned him out and jarred him to the bone. Too many variables were involved to allow him any planned course of action. Getting to his feet, he scanned the hill's edge for the easiest way down. Finding it, he started descending. It seemed ten times the distance down that it had been up, and he slid most of the way. When he got to the bottom, he was well reminded of the fact that McKinnon had knocked him around enough earlier to injure more than just his shoulder. However, priorities were priorities, and getting to his dad was at the top of the list.

Scott was uncertain about the direction to take. Because he had been temporarily blinded by the light Rachel had created as cover for them, he had seen little until after they had joined the woman. Panic attempted to take over, but he pushed it down angrily, telling himself it was a self-indulgence that he had no time to nurse. The personal reprimand helped clear his thoughts a little. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his sphere.

"Now, there's no time to experiment here," he told the object as if it could understand. "Just help me find him. And no near-misses either. I need a bearing—dead-on," he demanded finally. Verbalizing helped him both to visualize for the sphere what he wanted and to keep what calm he had finally achieved. He began turning slowly and concentrated to discern a direction. At north, northwest, the sphere brightened and generated a small amount of heat in Scott's hand.

"All right!" he exclaimed and took off in the direction he had been given.

 

Paul did not know whether the other man was trying to strangle him or break his back. The occasional roughhousing he had done with Scott in no way prepared him for this battle. Eric kept bending him backward, and Paul could feel the man's knees in the middle of his back. At the same time he was choking from lack of oxygen. Both sensations were painful, and he figured either had the ability of becoming fatal very quickly if he did not do something. He suddenly remembered some of the wrestling matches he had watched on TV with Scott. He'd always thought the matches to be overly violent and a rather useless way of spending one's time. Right now, however, he was not so sure.

He clasped both hands around Eric's forearm and jerked to break the grip around his neck. He managed just enough leeway to turn his head and throw back his right arm, leading with his elbow. Eric was jabbed hard in the side before he could regain a full hold, and Paul found himself free of the headlock. With the momentum he already had going for him, Paul continued to turn and toppled Eric from his back. He immediately scrambled to get up.

However, Eric stopped himself before he somersaulted, rolled up onto his knees and sprang back at Paul in a forward lunge. He led with his fist and caught Paul across his cheekbone and put him on his back. Eric was on his feet before Paul was able to pull the world back into focus, and he grabbed onto Paul's jacket and hoisted him up.

Paul managed to regain only about half of his balance, though, when Eric let go and at the same time threw a second punch, hitting him in the mouth. Paul stopped his fall with his hands just before his head hit the ground. Things spun for a moment; sounds were distant; and his vision darkened. Then he once more felt Eric's hands on him. He figured this type of thing would continue until he gave up willingly or was physically unable to say one way or the other. Under no circumstances was he going to do the former, but he knew that if he did not somehow turn the tables on the man, the latter was inevitable.

His thoughts turned to Scott and to Jenny. The two would still be separated, and both would be as alone as those years during his absence. Only now he would be leaving them in more danger than before he had returned, and today, Scott's vulnerability had been emphasized to him in a very startling way. Leaving his son in someone else's care would not absolve him of his responsibility to him—not now, or ever.

When he saw Eric shift his weight to pull him up again, Paul became alert to it and turned to grab his arms. He pulled down, hard, causing Eric to lose his balance and then threw him, almost judo fashion, over his head. This time it was Eric who was stunned. Surprised by the sudden offensive, he had not been able to control his fall and had not landed easily. Hardly a fight strategist, Paul simply copied Eric's tactics and grabbed the man's jacket and pulled him to his feet. However, rather than take a swing at him, he attempted to get Eric's hands behind him, in the hope of immobilizing him, or at the very least, slowing him down.

Eric, though, was ahead of him again and thwarted his efforts by stepping back, forcing him to do the same. Paul's lost leverage was used against him, and he was pushed back hard enough to break his grip, and Eric swung at him with another punch. However, this time Paul ducked and came back up with a punch of his own. His fist caught Eric on the chin, but the concussion ran back up his arm like so much lightning. He backed away a few steps, shaking his hand and knowing he could not keep up that type of defense for any length of time.

On the ground again, Eric shook his head, dazed. It seemed that his quarry had been holding back. He reached into his pocket and brought out the third sphere.

Paul retreated a step, opening his hands in front of him as a gesture that he did not want to start again. "Please, we must stop this," he told Eric. "We're a peaceful race, yet look around. We're causing destruction all around us here. It's wrong."

"Surrender to me, and there will be no more need for such action. It is you who are responsible for this," Eric returned, shifting the blame away from himself as easily as he had earlier with Scott.

"How can I make you understand?" Paul returned desperately.

Eric did not even offer a response. His patience had long since vanished to join the compassion he had never learned. A streak of light, as fine as a laser beam, sprang from the sphere, knocking Paul to the ground before he could avoid being hit. The beam penetrated the jacket, passed completely through his shoulder, and then dissipated in a burst of sparks against the trunk of a huge redwood behind him. The bark of the tree was charred several inches into the trunk.

Paul's shoulder was in worse shape, bleeding badly. The shock effect that often numbs the pain of a severe wound didn't help Paul; the pain was blinding. Grasping the shoulder, he managed to get up on his knees. Sensing the buildup of energy so similar to that felt just before a lightning strike, Paul glanced up at Eric, whose face displayed only fury. Paul realized he was about to lose more than just a battle in the woods and hoped Rachel would be able to make Scott understand.

However, Eric was unable to release the second, fatal beam. He was tackled again, this time so hard that he was knocked out. Scott pushed away from the man.

"Turnabout's fair play, 'Coach,'" he quipped sarcastically, then got up and hurried over to his father.

"Dad, you OK?" he asked, attempting to keep calm and suppress the tears that his fear was forcing on him at closer examination of the injury.

Paul was trying to get his breath. He ignored Scott's question because, under the circumstances, lying would have been ludicrous. "Where's Rachel?" he asked, concerned.

"I don't know," Scott told him, kneeling down in front of his father. He pulled Paul's hand away, opened his jacket, and pulled both shirt and jacket off his shoulder. Retrieving his handkerchief from his back pocket, Scott placed it against the back of the wound, then found his father's and pressed it to the front of the shoulder where the bleeding seemed to be worse. Paul flinched, but Scott only increased the pressure and kept talking. "She did something to stop the pain in my shoulder, and then put me to sleep. The explosions woke me." He shook his head. "She was gone. I thought I'd see her on my way back here."

"We'll see her," Paul told him, his voice already weakening. "She's been on the run a lot longer than we have. She has her own ways of dealing with danger."

"Obviously," Scott returned, presently preoccupied. He was quite used to depending on just himself and his dad. And unlike his dad, he had not yet learned to give his trust so freely. He simply did not expect a lot from anyone else; that way he was not disappointed so often.

Paul laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Thanks for the help."

Scott sat back, his heart still pounding from the run of events, and shrugged. "It's not much, but I'm hoping it'll slow the bleeding down until we can get away from here—and him." He brushed his hand across his father's face. The man was sweating heavily.

"No," Paul said, increasing his grip slightly. "I mean your actions a few moments ago."

Scott glanced back at the unconscious man, then returned to his father, who looked like he would be in the same state at any moment. "He didn't give me a choice," he told him, his voice waning in his fear. "He was trying to kill you."

"Yes," Paul said. "But it was a very dangerous thing for you to do."

Scott didn't understand his father's reaction, or perhaps it was his father who didn't understand. "Like I said, I didn't have a choice. You're my dad. And till we find mom, you're all I've got." He smiled slightly, forcing back the temptation to break into tears. This just wasn't the time for it.

However, Paul overrode his decision a little by pulling Scott over to him and into a one-armed hug—a tight one. Scott returned it fervently. Even if Rachel had not numbed his shoulder, he would not have pulled away.

"I'm glad you're OK," Paul said. "I was worried."

"Me, too," Scott returned, then after another moment in the embrace, he pushed away. "I think we better try to find Rachel and get you some help for that shoulder."

Paul nodded and held tightly to his son as Scott struggled to get his father on his feet.

"I'm afraid all your efforts are going to prove quite futile," a voice from behind them spoke.

It startled both of them, and Scott almost lost his balance. He stopped trying to lift his dad and pivoted around, sitting back on his knee. McKinnon stood across from them, about twenty feet away. Their brief preoccupation had kept them from seeing him get up. Totally suspicious of any move the man made or would make, Scott lowered his father back to the ground as carefully as possible. His eyes never left McKinnon as he steadied his dad.

"You should have used your time for farewell," Eric said to them. He opened his hand again, exposing the sphere. "All your time-outs have been used up for this game." The halo of light brightened.

"No!" Scott yelled, lunging to put himself between the man and his father and pulling his own sphere from his pocket. Determined to save his father, he threw everything into one conscious thought. His sphere glowed, and an energy bolt shot toward Eric. It collided with the beam the man had just aimed at Paul, and the blast was blinding, as well as deafening, and knocked Eric down. Had he not already been braced against his knee, Scott would have been thrown down as well. Steadying himself, he rubbed his eyes, trying to get them to focus again so that he could see the man.

Eric again picked himself up. "You continue to be a source of surprises for me, Scott. I never expected your own powers to be as pronounced as this."

"Maybe Earth isn't as primitive as you thought it was after all," Scott challenged, although he was as surprised at the outcome as the man, if not more.

"My opinions are of no importance, of course," Eric said. "My mission, however, is. Now, do not force my hand against you again. It will not go as easily for you as before. Leave us - now."

"No," Scott returned, then felt a hand on his arm.

"Do as he says," Paul told him. "I can't protect you, and I won't see you hurt."

"And I won't stand back and watch him kill you!" Scott snapped, glaring defiantly at his father. There was desperation as well as anger in his voice.

"Correction," Eric interjected. "My mission is not termination. Only the form he has taken will die so that he can return with me."

"Then you might as well terminate this form as well," Scott declared, presenting himself, "because I don't want to be left here alone—not again."

"Scott," Paul tugged at his arm harder; however, his strength was failing from the continued blood loss. He looked up at Eric. "Don't!" he pleaded. "My son's human...all human physically. He can die—just the same as anyone else on this planet."

"It would seem then," Eric said after a brief moment of thought, "that by his termination all problems would be resolved, and your responsibilities here would be at an end." His expression altered as if something had just occurred to him. "I do believe I have taken the wrong approach from the very beginning. We would have all been spared this tiresome run if I had pursued this logically, rather than through the emotional marathon this body led me into." He shook his head. "I will be most glad to be free of it." The sphere in his hand began to brighten, and the light changed from blue to bright red.

"Dad?" Scott glanced back quickly.

"You can't counter it," Paul said, anticipating his son's questions. "And neither can I," he added hurriedly.

Paul felt the magnitude of the energy Eric was about to hurl at both of them, and the instant the man released the accumulated energy beam, Paul grabbed Scott with both hands, jerked him backward to the ground, and threw himself over him.

The explosion was decibels louder than the previous one, and for a moment, none of the three could discern what had resulted from its impact, other than throbbing eardrums. Paul rose up a bit warily. Other than the ferocious pain that was stabbing him in the shoulder, making him take hold of it, he seemed to be undamaged.

"Scott?" he asked, his face filled with concern. He rolled off his son and ran his good hand quickly over the boy's face, chest, and body, checking for injuries.  
Scott's breath had been knocked out of him, but, other than that, he had not received further injury. He took hold of his father's frantic hand in his own shaky one and managed a hoarse, "I'm OK." Then he looked around them. The ground was charred about a yard away from them, as well as some of the foliage on the trees above them and about three feet beyond their position. "What happened?" he asked, sitting up.

Eric was still standing in the same place. His hands remained over his eyes for a moment more before he lowered them. His expression was one of shock when he saw the same strange sight in front of him. Then, as his eyes focused better, he started moving to his right cautiously and carefully, retaining his distance from the two on the ground.

"I have no idea how you managed to repel that kind of force so quickly and completely, but logic would dictate that you should have used that power against me rather than wasting it all on one defensive action to save the boy."

"Dad, what's he talking about?" Scott half whispered, not taking his eyes from the man as he moved around them.

Paul shook his head, confused, keeping one hand tightly around Scott's arm, but also watching Eric closely.

Curious, Scott glanced over to the general area where Eric seemed to be heading and caught the glint of the sphere that lay among some rocks. Eric was obviously making his way to that spot.

"Dad, he's headed for the sphere!" Scott called, pointing to the object that had been dropped earlier during the men's scuffle. It appeared they were going to be put through the last five minutes of terror all over again. Not knowing how they had survived the first time left them nothing to hope for in the matter.

However, when Eric stopped at the place where the sphere lay and reached down for it, he received a most shocking surprise. He felt something slam against his chest, and he was knocked backwards and off his feet. He sat up, shaking his head and holding a hand against the pain in his chest. But he regained his senses quickly, took a deep breath, and bent forward to reach once more for the object.

"Try it again, Eric, and I'll knock you clear to L.A.—nonstop."

"It's Rachel," Scott said to his dad when he recognized her voice.

"Yes," Paul returned, then pointed to their far left. "There." She was walking toward them.

"Who are you?" Eric shouted at the woman as she stopped a good fifty yards away beyond the clearing. It was obvious she wanted more than just open space between her and McKinnon for the time being.

"All those early morning faculty meetings, and you still don't remember my name?" she taunted sarcastically. She shook her head, "My, my."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he retaliated.

"Who I am or what I am, Eric, isn't relevant here. What is, is who you are, and I believe that is a great deal of trouble for Paul Forrester and his son. You've hurt them both quite enough, Eric. I have no intention of letting you do that anymore."

Eric's movement intimated that he was about to make another grab for the sphere. Rachel, her patience already paper thin toward the man, clenched her fist and pushed with her mind. Eric was knocked off his feet again, but this time he actually left the ground and landed on his back several feet away.

"Can't say I didn't warn you about that," Rachel reminded him. "But then you don't do too much listening do you? Or perhaps you just didn't believe me. Perhaps you'll pay more attention to this."

Rachel took a deep breath and released it, and her face lost all expression, although her eyes remained fixed on Eric. The wind began rising, slowly at first, but continued to increase in velocity. Leaves of the trees rustled, then branches began to sway. A strong gust of cold air forced Eric back to the ground when he attempted to get up. Leaves and dust blew into his face, and he put up an arm to shield his eyes from it.

Scott looked around him in disbelief. The wind disturbance was all around them, but not so much as a light breeze was touching him or his dad. It was as if they were inside a sphere of calm. He looked from Eric up to where Rachel stood. Her hair whipped around her face, and her blouse billowed about her, but she remained quite steady on her feet.

Eric tried three more times to get up, but each time the wind bounced him back to the ground. He was even beginning to find it difficult to stay in one place on the ground as the wind continued to gain velocity. Brittle branches on the ancient trees snapped first, then young ones began to weaken and break away. Many of them pounded against Eric—something of which Rachel made sure. She was more than a little upset by the way he had treated Scott, and she knew Paul had been injured in some way during part of the altercation that had taken place between the men because of the blood on his shirt. Knowing now that Eric's origin was the same as Paul's, only added to her disgust for his methods.

Eric, who had already taxed his strength quite a bit before the windstorm had begun, wore down rather quickly. After a few minutes of battling near gale-force winds, his muscles gave out on him, and he collapsed. The winds immediately slowed to a light breeze. Scott settled back as he watched Rachel. He felt a little out of breath and realized that during the last several minutes, he had hardly done any breathing at all.

"You know, if my nerves weren't already unraveled, this would do it for sure," he said. "It's hard even to imagine that anyone could..."

Paul's right hand was holding his injured shoulder tightly, but his left he laid on Scott's forearm. The boy was trembling; however, Paul could not discern any one cause. Scott's emotions were a jumble that Paul was unable to sort. His own condition did not help his attempt.

When Rachel began walking toward them, Scott glanced over to Eric. The man was still down. He seemed to be conscious, but he was not moving. Scott took another breath and laid his hand over his father's. What he felt was wet and sticky and extremely cold. The teenager's heart jumped into his throat even before he looked down.

Blood from the wound had trickled down the length of Paul's arm, soaking the shirt sleeve, and now leaked out from under the jacket cuff and over his hand. That was not all that surprising, considering the size of the wound; however, right now, it was the coldness that presented the greater danger. Scott had learned enough first aid to know that his dad was about to go into shock. He reached up and touched Paul's face with the back of his hand. The skin felt just as unnaturally cold as his hand did.

"Rachel!" Scott called in a rather frantic tone, which clearly told the woman she needed to hurry.

"I'll be OK, Scott," Paul said, trying to force a smile, but the voice was too weak for the smile to be reassuring in any way. He was also beginning to look very drowsy.

The concern on Scott's face worsened. He reached inside his father's shirt to check the wound and found the handkerchief soaked. He pressed in more tightly against the hole with his left hand and pushed against his back with his right.

Paul flinched. The pain just wouldn't numb. Now that Eric was momentarily down for the count, the dizziness he had been fighting refused to be ignored any longer. He felt cold and very sleepy and just wanted to lie down. Paul started leaning into Scott, with no knowledge that he was doing so.

"Dad?" Scott spoke, trying to push back the panic. It was much harder to control in this situation. He had been through a similar one several months ago when his father's life had been threatened by a virus against which he'd had no immunity. "Dad, don't pass out on me now."

"I'm not," Paul returned, hearing things very distantly. "I only want to close my eyes for a minute."

"No," Scott said hurriedly. "Dad, you can't. You have to try to stay awake. Please, don't fall asleep!"

Paul had no strength left to fight the drowsiness trying to claim him. In another moment his full weight was against Scott, and the boy had no choice other than to maneuver him down so that his head rested on his lap.

"Dad?" Scott almost could not speak at all, and tears were filling his eyes. "Don't..." His voice broke off completely as he ran his hand along the man's cheek. Things might not have seemed quite as bleak were his father not so cold to the touch. Scott tried to locate a pulse just below the ear. It was faint. In fact, Scott found it difficult to tell whether it was actually his dad's pulse or his own that he was feeling because his own heart was pounding heavily.

Rachel knelt down and laid a gentle hand on Scott's shoulder. He looked up at her, his face tear streaked.

"Can you help him?" he asked, almost no volume in his voice at all. He remembered what she had done with his own injury earlier.

"I don't think I can, Scott," she said honestly, but the look on the teenager's face, especially in his eyes, made her stop a moment. "My powers in this area are so different from your father's," she said. "I want to help. How I wish I could! But I just don't have inside me what it would take."

Scott's face darkened even more. She could feel his thoughts enough to know the potential loss of his father was tearing at him. Then it occurred to her that they were both missing a very important and very obvious option. She laid her hand on his firmly.

"Maybe I can't help him, Scott, but you can. After all, you are your father's son."

He stared at her a moment. The woman obviously did not understand that his abilities were quite limited so far. Except for the surprising success he'd had a few minutes ago, even the smallest tasks were very difficult for him. "No, Rachel, I can't," he said almost in a whisper, shaking his head.

Rachel put both hands on his shoulders for emphasis. "Do you think for one minute that what you did a few minutes ago with the sphere was some kind of accident? If you do, you're wrong. You have some very special gifts, and unlike those of us who happen to possess such gifts by mere chance, they are yours by inheritance. They're your birthright, Scott, and they're very real. But you're going to have to believe in yourself and try—just like anyone else who wants to succeed at something—in order to pull them into the open. Do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Scott looked down at his father a moment and then back up at the woman. "I don't want to lose him." His voice betrayed both the fear and agony he was feeling at this point,

"Then try," she told him and then released his shoulders and sat back. There was just no more time for talk.

Scott also knew there was no time for arguing possibilities and impossibilities. Right now, he would try anything to save his father. He took his sphere from his jacket pocket. For a moment he clutched it tightly, then looked down. His dad's color had drained from his face, and for a moment, Scott had to struggle against his worst fears. The possibility of failure now terrified him more than anything of the past hour.

When his father had been in the hospital several months ago, he had been unable to help him. What if he couldn't now? There was no Dr. Duchow here in the wings to pull off a medical miracle, and Rachel had said the task was beyond her own abilities. When it came down to the bottom line, he knew there were no other alternatives left to him, and his father certainly had none.

Scott's left hand was still inside his dad's shirt, pressing against the wound. The pulse kept fading. He took a deep breath and then looked back up at the woman, his expression letting her know that he had made up his mind.

"Try to see the injury, Scott," Rachel told him and reached out and touched his forehead gently, "in your mind. I've seen some of your transcripts. You've done really well in biology. Use that knowledge to repair the damage." Hesitancy appeared in the boy's eyes again. "You can do it, Scott," she assured him. "I know you can. Believe in yourself."

Scott almost smiled. "You sound just like my dad."

She touched his cheek and tried to give him an encouraging smile. "Close your eyes, if you think that'll help screen out interference." Scott did and took another deep breath. It was a bit ragged this time. Rachel put her hand over the hand Scott had against the wound. "Trust your abilities," she whispered.

An unexpected calm settled over him, and the teenager opened his eyes again to look at her a moment—intensely, questioning. Her eyes answered him. She was helping the only way she could. He nodded gratitude and shut his eyes once more and began concentrating.

At first, the pictures were hazy and difficult to filter, but Scott soon realized that he was fighting the images by trying too hard. He altered the reception dramatically when he started relating what he needed to work on to illustrations in a book. He stopped straining to see all the details at once and took them one detail at a time. The sphere's warmth increased in his hand, and, although his eyes were closed to its light, as it brightened, so did the images in his mind. He began not only to see, but to understand as well what he was doing.

It was quite an incredible experience and equally unsettling. One of the most difficult things to deal with was his father's pain. Scott found he was somehow sharing that aspect with him—not in the sense of physical discomfort, but the stress it was placing on the man's system. Scott wondered how his dad had endured it and still stood his ground against McKinnon.

The repair work, while seemingly as endless as the time he'd spent in the hospital waiting room months ago, did not take long. He first became aware of the fact that the pain was diminishing to a light throb, and then a new strength materialized and grew. With its plumbing system repaired, Paul's heart pumped harder and stronger, and his breathing became steadier and deeper. At last, Scott closed his hand around the sphere, whose glow was dimming now that its energy was no longer being summoned. He pulled in a couple of long, deep breaths, then felt a hand take his chin, and his eyes fluttered opened. Rachel was smiling at him.

"You all right?" she asked quietly.

It took him a moment to answer. He looked around him, his mind reorienting itself to the outer world again, then glanced down. His father's breathing was easy to see now, and he could feel a strong heartbeat with his hand. He removed the handkerchief, dropped it to the ground, and looked at the wound. Aside from the bloodstains, there was barely any trace of the wound at all. He removed the cloth at the back of the shoulder as well. The exit hole was repaired as well. Scott looked back up at the woman. He still could not believe he had actually been able to do it, but since it was done, he could not deny the fact.

"I think he's gonna be OK," he said in a quiet voice, trying to smile and suppress the lingering disbelief.

"Yes, he is," Rachel told him. "You should be very proud of what you just did." She pushed his hair back from his forehead affectionately. He was perspiring, despite the coolness around them.

I'm just glad he's alive," the teenager returned, and saying it cracked the barrier he had erected against his emotions in order to use the sphere. He could not stop the flow of tears that came. It was as if a dam had broken inside him. The woman's hand rested firmly on his shoulder, a gentle support he needed just then.

Nothing was said for a moment, then Rachel spoke. "Scott, I want you to think about something." She touched his cheek again lightly. "Just because half of you is from this world, doesn't mean your powers are halved as well. They could be stronger for it. The potential's in all of us." A smile broke at the corners of her mouth. "It's not impossible that you inherited powers from your mother as well. Instead of halved, your powers could be doubled. It's not as impossible a thought as it may sound."

He couldn't resist the smiling back, the way her words made him feel. The idea intrigued him a little. It was something that had never crossed his mind.

"Give it time and a lot of patience," she said, then paused a second before adding, "and always let wisdom guide you, rather than blind emotion."

Scott considered the words a moment, glancing over at Eric and down to his dad. Then his eyes returned to Rachel. "I understand what you're saying." He released a heavy sigh. "Besides, I'd rather be like my dad any day of the week than what McKinnon turned out to be."

Rachel's smiled her approval of his words. Paul stirred as he began waking up, and they both looked down. As he opened his eyes, it was obvious he was having difficulty focusing on them.

The man blinked, trying to clear a persistent haze from his vision. He was stiff, but, other than that, he felt pretty good. That confused him. The last thing Paul remembered was far from what he was feeling now.

"Scott?" he asked, his first concern obvious as he tried to push himself up.

"Right here, Dad," Scott answered quickly to reassure him, and he helped him sit up.

"How're you feeling, kiddo?" Rachel asked him.

The look Paul gave Rachel—puzzlement, marked by an arched eyebrow—made Scott laugh unexpectedly.

"It's just an expression, Dad," he told him, laying his hand on the recently repaired shoulder for a moment before resting it on his father's forearm.

Paul took note of the fact that the weight of his son's hand had not caused any discomfort. He moved the shoulder experimentally, carefully then more dramatically. Finally, he reached up inside his shirt and jacket to feel where the wound had been, then pushed the shirt away to look. He glanced across to Rachel.

"Don't look at me," she told him, then looked in Scott's direction briefly, hoping the man would pick up on the hint.

Paul did and turned to his son. There was a silent exchange between them for a moment, then he reached up and put his hand around the back of Scott's neck. "Like the man said," he teased lightly, although quite serious about what he was saying, "you continue to be a source of surprises—even to your father."

 

"Make that to me, too," Scott remarked. "This has been some experience I've got to tell you." He continued to hold his father's gaze for several seconds. There were some things he really wanted to say but could not seem to voice them. He had felt the near loss much stronger this time and realized now why the dreams he had been having had troubled him to such a degree.

Paul broke the silence by speaking to both. "Give me a hand up?" he asked, and Rachel and Scott both stood and offered him their hands.

Once Paul was standing with them, Rachel looked around. A frown darkened her face as she sighed, "I've always heard the expression 'rerunning the Battle of the Little Big Horn,' but I think we overran the budget on this remake."

Scott was looking around them as well. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'd say that's a pretty accurate conclusion." He glanced at his dad, and wasn't too surprised to see the bemused expression on his father's face. "Uh, forget it, Dad," he told him. "It's just another saying."

"Sounds more like what you call sarcasm," Paul returned.

"That, too," Scott returned with a slight smile. Then his eyes fell on Eric again, and he stared at him for a few moments. "What about him?" he asked and felt his dad's arm around him.

However, it was Rachel who spoke. "I guess I should at least let him up," she said with a sigh.

"You mean he is conscious?" asked Scott. He had thought the man looked more like he was dazed than unconscious, but figured since McKinnon had remained down so long that his assumption about his condition was wrong.

"Oh, very," Rachel answered. She sighed again and returned her full concentration on McKinnon again. "You can get up now," she informed Eric. "But I suggest that you keep your movements slow and unthreatening. I would hate to have to resort to anything drastic. I've done my best to avoid it so far."

If what they had seen so far was only a sample of what could be Scott hoped McKinnon would take the advice. He figured either his nervousness was showing more than he realized or his father was worried about the other man's decision, too, because the arm around his shoulders tightened protectively.

Eric opened his eyes and looked around from where he was lying. He took in a couple of deep breaths. Then moving experimentally at first, he obeyed Rachel's orders to get up. His joints and muscles felt stiff, much like they had when he had first taken human form. When he finally stood erect and faced the group, he appeared to have lost a good deal of the aggressive attitude he had shown previously.

"Eric," Rachel addressed him and side-stepped to put herself between him and Paul and Scott. "I'd say as a visitor, you've quite overstayed your welcome."

Eric shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I think I said it pretty clearly," she returned.

"You," Eric corrected. "It's you I don't understand."

"Your whole comprehension of this world is faulty, my friend."

"I follow the instructions of my leaders. The decisions given by the Council of Elders are our laws."

"Your laws, Eric - for your world. They do not apply here. Excuse me for mentioning it. Only a minor point, I know, but I don't believe Earth has any extradition treaties with your planet."

"The beings of this planet do not even accept the existence of life other than their own," Eric contended. "We are not wanted here. He is not wanted here," he said, pointing to Paul.

"You and your all-knowing Council have mistakenly judged this entire planet on the actions of a few. I would think that beings supposedly so wise would have discovered their error. As for Paul not being wanted—that statement's also based on a faulty assumption. You are blind as well as deaf, if you haven't figured out that Scott very much wants his father with him."

"I need my dad," Scott spoke up, an edge to his voice he couldn't curb anymore than he could remain quiet while his and his father's future together was being discussed. His weight shifted toward his father.

Paul sensed his son's uneasiness and was strong enough now to give him a little physical support and did so without comment, resting his hand against the middle of his back.

"An emotional attachment is obvious," Eric said, speaking to all of them this time. "But I've found that emotion, along with many others, to be quite unstable."

"I have learned that the degree of sincerity depends upon each individual's ability to accept such an attachment," Paul said, returning to one of his more textbook-sounding statements. "In the family unit, that attachment is usually stronger than in any other."

Scott cradled his right arm. The stress of helping with his father's injury had caused the pain to start again earlier than the time frame Rachel's actions had allotted him. His fear toward Eric was escalating as well. Paul raised his hand to the teenager's shoulder. It helped a little, but there was simply too much happening to do any real good.

"Before you returned," Eric said, attempting another approach to counter Paul's last point of argument. "Who took care of your son?"

"Friends of my mother," Scott answered him instead, so Eric turned his next questions directly to him.

"Why did your mother not care for you herself, if the family is truly as he has said it to be?"

Scott swallowed. He had been backed into a corner quite tactfully, and it was a place he had been in many times over the years. No matter how he might answer McKinnon's question, it could be turned against him—against his father. He shook his head, pushing aside his first impulse, and returned a challenge instead. "I don't have to defend my mother to you. She did what she did, so I wouldn't be hurt. My dad came back here to help for the same reason. Why don't you make me understand why that's wrong?"

The man found the teenager's stare harder to contend with this time. He altered his interpretation of the question to benefit his own stand. "He disobeyed a Council edict—broke his pledge to us. That is the wrong. And I was chosen by our Council to see that their judgment is sustained. I must honor that trust they placed in me."

"Honor?" Scott echoed the word. "All the things you've done—to my friends, my dad—and you talk about honor?"

"I regret certain actions. But as we discussed earlier, Scott, this is a very hostile place. One cannot be surrounded by such violence without somehow being affected by it."

Scott's return was surprisingly controlled. "My dad's been here almost two years, Mr. McKinnon. I've yet to see him hurt anyone the way you have. In fact, Dad's helped a lot of people." Scott hugged his arm tighter, partly against the pain, mostly against his emotions. "Besides tormenting us, what have you done?"

"Scott," Paul reprimanded him, but in a quiet tone.

"His anger toward me is strong," Eric noted.

"He is frightened."

"You, my friend, may be different as your son insists," Eric remarked. "But he is as all others here. No matter what you do, that cannot be changed."

"I'm afraid you're wrong on both those assumptions, Eric," Rachel broke into the conversation. "Scott is very different. He took your abuse—every bit of it. What type of physical retaliation did he give you, other than when he defended his father's life against your attack? I would think on that long and hard, and the fact that right now he has the potential for greater things than you could ever imagine—more than even his father suspects, I believe."

Eric looked back at Scott, studying him a bit more discernibly this time.

The teenager tried to keep his expression neutral. He wanted neither to confirm nor disclaim what the woman had said. He was not sure he was ready to believe it himself.

Paul's expression was characteristically unreadable, which gave Eric no hint of what the man might say or do next. A margin of uncertainty was beginning to nag at him concerning his position. "If that is true..." he started, but Rachel broke in again.

"It's true."

Eric faced her again. "I'll ask again, Rachel. Who are you?"

"I'm just one of the hostile little inhabitants of this world, Eric. My problem is that I was born just a little too early—about a thousand years, so they say." She sighed. "But as I said, that's my problem. You have a problem of your own—one that you're going to have to deal with. If you have a conscience to go along with that honor you've been talking so much about, use it. Make your choice: follow orders given to you thousands of light years away by someone who knows nothing of this world as it is today, or follow your feelings of what is morally right."

Eric stood for several moments in silence, studying each in turn, and took note when Paul pulled his son closer against him.

Scott's tension was near its peak. All he could think about was his dream. It had never ended well. If it had been precognition rather than coincidence, he didn't want to contemplate what McKinnon's decision would be.

Eric straightened. By this time, he had pretty well recovered from his confrontation with Rachel's psionic storm. "I will pose one final question to you," he said, speaking to Paul.

"Ask it."

"I've seen the ways this civilization deals with its children," he told Paul. "My treatment of your son reflected a part of what I observed. The reality is that the children are exceptionally vulnerable in every aspect of their lives. What have you done to prove that your being here has made it any better for Scott? What possible difference could you make?"

"If he wasn't here, I'd be alone," Scott answered pointedly before his father could say anything. "And I know he cares about what happens to me. Whether you can ever understand that, I don't know, but here—on this planet—having someone who cares makes a lot of difference. I don't want to be alone. I want my dad, and someday we're going to find my mom, so she won't have to be alone anymore either."

Scott's words created feelings in Paul he could not easily describe. His hand rested more firmly around his son's shoulders. "Is that answer sufficient?" he asked Eric.

"It will have to be, I suppose," Eric said, then added, "if I am to follow my conscience as Mrs. Donovan has so strongly advised. But, my friend, I believe you will wish to return home—someday."

"I will always remember," Paul returned. "But this is my home now. My son is here, and Jenny Hayden is here. I understand what a family is, and once we are together, I will have no wish to be separated from them again."

"Then our farewell here is a final one," Eric concluded.

"Yes," Paul agreed.

Eric put his hand into his jeans pocket. "I will relate to the Elders all that has been told to me. I will make sure that they hear. I cannot promise they will understand."

"It will be enough that you are willing to try," Paul told him.

Eric removed his hand from his pocket and displayed another sphere. Scott's heart jumped into his throat, fearing that the last few moments of conversation had been nothing more than a distraction from the man's true intentions. If his father had not had his arm around him, he might have gone into a panic. But Paul displayed no qualms at the sight of the other sphere. Even Rachel showed no signs of uncertainty about the man's actions.

"It would be wise, I think," Eric said to them, "for you to shield your eyes for a moment."

Scott looked quickly to his father who nodded for him to do as Eric requested. He shut his eyes tightly and covered them with his hand. Paul and Rachel shielded their eyes as well.

All they heard was a gentle whoosh of air around them, but they discerned the flash even through closed lids and felt the warmth of an exceedingly bright light. When the cool shade of the trees was again felt on their faces, they opened their eyes. Whatever had been done, neither the Traveler, nor his human form, were anywhere to be seen. Eric was gone.

"I don't even want to know," Scott commented as he released a deep breath. "I'm just glad he's gone. When I saw that he had another sphere..."

Paul laid his hand on the back of Scott's head and smiled at him. "It was the only way he had of getting back to his ship to return home. That's why he didn't try to use it earlier against Rachel. He had no desire to stay here. We all heard his feelings about that."

Scott looked over to him. "I think he was right about one thing, though." Paul gave him a questioning look, and the boy explained. "You're going to miss your home one of these days."

"Probably," Paul said. "But more like you miss your old home in Washington with the Lockharts. We all have our memories, Scott—you, me, Rachel. We each had different homes to begin with, but that doesn't mean that's where we will always be or even want to be. My home now is wherever you are—and someday Jenny will be with us. I don't want to be anywhere else."

Scott found he couldn't say anything. It had been too long a day, and his emotions were on a fine, glass edge. He tried to put what he felt into his eyes and held his father's glance for a few moments. Finally, he threw his uninjured arm around the man's neck and held the embrace possessively. "I'm glad you're alive," he mumbled against his dad's chest.

Paul glanced up briefly to Rachel and saw a few tears in her eyes. Since his own emotions were pressing him, he found he could not find any more words for Scott than what he had already said. He hugged the teenager tightly.

Rachel was more than glad that the episode with Eric was finally over. Trust had taken quite a beating in the chain of events. She regretted the incident more for Paul than Scott because, after learning about him and getting to know him, she hated for Paul ever to acquire the cynicism and mistrust that she knew would come in time, no matter how hard the attempts might be to avoid it. Scott had already had some hard lessons in it, she knew. He was actually learning trust and other ideals in reverse to Paul. Rachel hoped this would not set him back too much. Eric had treated him badly, both physically and mentally. However, seeing father and son together—and safe—was a boost to her morale that at least something good had come from the incident. It was quite obvious that the relationship of the two was now a closer one.

For a few brief moments, thoughts of Sam came into her mind, and she realized again how much she missed him. Looking around, she also saw that time was getting away from them.

"Guys, I hate to be the worrier, but I really think we need to get going."

The two separated, and Paul ruffled Scott's hair affectionately. "She's right. Someone just might happen by. We're not that far off one of the main roads in the park."

"More than just 'might'," Rachel corrected. "I already had to reroute a group of tourists a while ago." She winced a little as she added, "Not to mention the ranger I sent off on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction of the fireworks."

"So that's where you went," Scott said. "I was wondering what happened to you."

"We couldn't very well let some poor person fall into what was going on," Rachel remarked. "At least, not from my point of view."

Scott couldn't help laughing. "But what headlines!" he said gesturing in front of him the placement of bold type on a newspaper. "Aliens Battle For Claim to National Park." Then he nudged his dad teasingly with his elbow. "Pictures by Paul Forrester." He feigned thought for a moment. "Yeah, it'd work."

Paul gave him another gentle squeeze as he shook his head. "Let's go," he told him, his tone a pretense of disgust.

Rachel laughed, then she motioned for them to follow her. Scott bent down and picked up the sphere Eric had dropped. He handed it to his dad. "At least he left this. Yours is gone, isn't it?"

Paul nodded, but it was Rachel who actually answered the question. "He only had the one against Eric's many, and he used most of his own energy helping a bobcat that was trapped under one of the falling redwoods."

"It was wrong for her to be hurt in a battle that was not her own," Paul said, then added, looking at Scott. "Besides, she had a family to care for."

"So you helped her rather than protect yourself," Scott commented.

"It was my fight, not hers," Paul returned.

"And she did repay the favor," Rachel interceded, and both looked in her direction. After all, she had been the last to enter the scene. She smiled and shrugged. "I ran into her just before I found you," the woman explained. "She told me what happened and that I should hurry if I was going to be of any help."

Scott turned to his father. "What did she do?" he asked, curious about the intercession of a wildcat in his father's behalf, and knowing better now than to be skeptical of Rachel's claim to have talked to one.

"When Eric saw that I had used all of the sphere's energy, he decided to end things quickly, but the bobcat came out of the bushes near him and knocked him off balance so that I could get under cover."

"Remind me to make a donation to the local wildlife society when we get back," Scott remarked, his tone one of obvious gratitude to the animal. Paul threw him a questioning look, but the expression on Scott's face exposed the words as a joke.

They all walked to an elevated area about twenty feet way, and Rachel stopped them there, turning back to the damaged forest area. Three trees were down, two of them sequoias. Rachel frowned and put her hands on her hips.

"It's such a shame that had to happen," she sighed.

Her tone was so sad that Scott began to feel worse about it than he might have otherwise. He nudged his father gently.

"Dad, are you strong enough right now that you could do anything to make this place look a little better?"

"I can try," Paul returned, and took the new sphere out of his pocket. It immediately brightened in his hand, and a blue halo formed around the older of the two sequoias. It groaned a moment and then righted itself. Once back on the foundation from which it had been broken, it began to knit replacement bark throughout the severed area. The halo diminished, then disappeared, leaving the sequoia to continue its existence as long as nature would allow.

When the light around the sphere itself finally faded, the other two trees had been righted as well, and new foliage had appeared, some sprouting brightly colored blooms.

Rachel, who had been watching him, smiled broadly. "Thanks," she told him. "It's beautiful."

Paul smiled back at her. "Home?" he asked.

"Please," she answered.

"Immediately, if not sooner," Scott said, adding his own agreement to the idea, and they all started off in the direction of Rachel's car.

"What about McKinnon's Camaro?" Scott asked. "What's...?" he started, but a bobcat leaped into their pathway, startling all of them by her sudden appearance.

Both Rachel and Paul recognized her as the young mother who already knew them to be quite different from the average humans in the forest. She appeared excited and upset, her ears laid back. Scott tried to take her presence in stride, but he just was not accustomed to every unusual circumstance that presented itself. A wildcat jumping out in front of him, and acting quite nervous was plenty of reason to make him back up several steps to put some distance between them, but his father's gentle hand on his shoulder helped calm him again.

Rachel bent over and stroked the feline's head affectionately. While it became readily apparent then that the animal meant them no harm, there was no denying that something was very definitely troubling her. Rachel cupped the cat's jaw in one hand and petted her with the other.

"Tell me," she said, and the bobcat returned a long, guttural response that was halfway between a high-pitched growl and a purr. Rachel straightened and turned back to Paul and Scott.

"We've got company heading this way. It's not one of the rangers, and she said one of the hawks at the main gate described them as other than tourists."

"It's Fox," Paul informed them. He had been attentive to the animal's responses and perceived them as well.

"What?" Scott did not mean to be confused, but he was, just the same. "How can you be sure of that?"

"Her description," Paul said matter-of-factly, his mind running in several directions now.

"The cat gave you a description?"

"The one the hawk gave her."

Scott just stared at him, but Paul's expression told him he should really know better by this time that some things were just to be accepted. Scott tried a different approach.

"Come on, Dad, how could Fox know we're here?"

"How does he ever know?" Paul countered, and Scott did not have a comeback for that.

Rachel was strangely quiet and had been since Paul had first mentioned the agent's name.

"Are you all right?" Scott asked her.

She nodded that she was, but it was not the truth.

Scott looked back to his father. "I wonder what our chances are of getting back to our ride?"

Rachel glanced down again to the bobcat for a moment. "Where?" she asked her, and the cat responded again. Rachel translated for Scott. "I'm afraid they're already between us and our transportation out of here. Both my car and Eric's are on the other side of that next ridge over there." She gestured in the general direction they would have to take.

"That's just great," Scott said.

Paul laid his arm across his son's shoulders. It had been a long day for all of them, but the trouble had started for Scott quite a bit earlier than it had for Paul and Rachel. The boy had just about reached his limit for emotional demands, and his injuries—yet unrepaired—were pressing him harder with each passing minute. "We'll work something out," Paul said. "We haven't lost too many battles with Fox, after all."

Rachel took a few steps and reached for Scott's hand."It's never easy, kiddo, but we can't give up now," she told him, then kissed the teenager on the forehead.

"No," Scott said with a sigh, "but it'd sure be nice to have the numbers on our side once in a while."

"You've got me," Rachel teased.

"I was thinking more in the line of John Wayne and the cavalry, but I suppose you'll have to do under the circumstances," Scott replied, a light teasing tone in his voice as well.

Paul sensed the fear behind the bravado of both, but had to smile at the interchange just the same.

Rachel took hold of Paul's hand, too. "Come on," she told them. "Let's get going." Releasing them, she turned around, and they followed her once more down the ridge.

The bobcat remained for a few moments, watching them and thinking about what she had heard—and even more about what she felt. She turned and scampered quickly into the thicket.  
  
---  
  
George Fox had worked crossword puzzles by the thousands and run mazes that would make most people want to give up their sanity, but the intertwined events that had brought him to this national park in California had almost driven him to the edge.

McKinnon's trail had led him in more directions in a short space of time than Forrester and his kid had ever dreamed of doing. But Fox had found him—in Mason Corners—and, only a few hours ago, the agent had learned that his original quarry was living in the town as well. What a boon! Maybe his luck was finally changing for the better and Forrester's for the worse.

Fox had used the local city, state, and federal park law enforcement to track down Eric's whereabouts after he had suddenly left the grounds of the high school sometime after the lunch hour. Forest Ranger Greer in Sequoia Park remembered seeing a vehicle, similar to the description given him, pass by his station sometime after 1:00.

George Fox, his assistant Wylie, and a half dozen Air Force personnel, who had been loaned to him—on-call status—since the new sighting, had immediately set out for the park. It had taken them some time, even with the help of the rangers, to locate McKinnon's Camaro—empty. Then they found another abandoned car not far away. Fox was uncertain about what might come about if the second vehicle meant that both McKinnon and Forrester were in the same place. Might invasion plans be on their minds?

The ranger, on the other hand, was uncertain about the FSA agent—not to mention his companions. They were all armed with tranquilizers, the kind that he usually used on bears and big cats that tried to infringe on territories other than their own. The thought of using them on people was not sitting to well with him.

When the small group of would-be hunters arrived in the clearing where only a short time before, the intense battle between the two Travelers had occurred, all was silent. For the moment, even the birds were holding their peace. A couple of the soldiers noticed the unusual silence first.

"Mr. Fox, sir," Lieutenant Pennmore addressed his acting CO, "something seems real weird here. It's too quiet."

"What?" Fox's mind was on other things besides sounds in the forest. "What are you talking about, Lieutenant?"

"The quiet, sir," Pennmore repeated. "This is a federal reserve. Thousands of tourists come through here. The animals are used to that. But since we walked into this area, there hasn't been so much as a cricket chirp." He took a deep breath and swallowed, looking around the area again. "That's not as it should be, sir."

"He's right, sir," Lieutenant Cramer said. "Something's scared everything off, and I can't see how it could be us."

"Looks quiet enough to me," Wylie commented, scanning the area for himself. There wasn't even a blade of grass trodden down that he could see.

"Maybe," Fox returned, already on edge.  
  
---  
  
Rather than try to circle around to the cars, Rachel, Paul, and Scott had decided to locate the main group before they themselves were discovered. That gave them the advantage of not being taken by surprise and a better chance of staying out of sight and harm's way. Rachel had worked on the nerves in Scott's shoulder again as a temporary fix until they could get out of the park, and then they set out in search of Fox and his men. It had not been that hard to find the loudly tramping group, of course, and the three federal fugitives were presently in a thicket not thirty feet away—watching Fox and the others as they stood in the clearing.

Rachel had surveyed each of the men carefully, but she had settled on Fox—the one man in the group she recognized. "I should've known it was you, George Fox," she whispered more to herself than to the others, but both heard her and looked at her questioningly.

"You know Fox?" Paul asked her.

"Oh, yeah. We've had our share of run-ins, but it's been a while. It's been about fifteen years or so, I'd say. After we stopped running into him for such a long time, Dr. Anders figured the FSA had taken the assignment away from him, or he had lost his job because he hadn't been able to get us back. It wasn't long, though, before some guy named Palmer picked up the chase."

"They might have taken your case away from him, but he didn't lose his job. He was given someone else to hunt; that's all," Scott said, and Rachel glanced over to him.

She touched his cheek and brushed his hair back from his face. "Yeah, I guess it really was fifteen years ago," she sighed and turned back to the men in the clearing. "Nice job description he's got. Primary duty: make life miserable for designated persons who don't conform to standards set by the P.D.H."

"P.D.H.?" Scott asked, puzzled.

"Pentagon's Definition of Humanity," Rachel quipped, quoting the pointed remark Sam had made to her once-upon-a-lifetime ago.  
The three of them continued to watch and wait for a few more minutes, then a shrill cry from a hawk overhead caught everyone's attention. It was a signal Rachel had been waiting for. Help was on the way, but, in the meantime, she had to stall for time and keep the government men where they now were. She started to stand up, but Paul caught hold of her arm, not understanding why she had suddenly decided to reveal herself—and them.

She laid her hand on his. "It's OK. I have a few tricks up my sleeve I never got around to showing the guys in Washington, and I think I can use a couple of them to get us out of here. For now, just stay down," she told him, then added in Scott's direction, "Both of you and for goodness sake, trust me." For a moment Paul was still hesitant to let her go. "I have a child of my own, Paul," she reminded him. "I have no intention of becoming the catch of the day—or a martyr. I just want to slow them down if I can."

Paul gave her arm a gentle squeeze and nodded. When he released her, she stood up and walked out into the open, leaving Paul and Scott no choice but to watch and wait and hope that all three of them did not end up being shot by the soldiers Fox had brought with him. And they knew that was exactly what would happen if Fox was given any chance at all.

"Well, well," Rachel spoke, as she came to a stop about six yards from the men. "George, it's been quite a long time now, hasn't it?"

Fox simply looked at the woman with a question on his face. Her appearance from nowhere had startled them all. The soldiers had immediately leveled their guns, but just as quickly they lowered them when they saw it was a woman. Paul and Scott had come close to ignoring Rachel's orders when the guns came up, but settled a little when they saw them go down.

"I beg your pardon, Miss...?" Fox tried for a name, although something was pulling at the back of his mind.

"My, I thought you had a better memory than that, George," Rachel mocked her disappointment. "I realize, of course, that it has been a long time. But still, I don't think I've changed so very much—physically, anyway."

Fox stared at her, trying to put the note of familiarity in its place. "McAllister?" he asked only half aloud, then shook his head against the idea. "No."

"You make it sound impossible," Rachel chided.

"Not impossible, just unexpected. The agency hasn't had a line on you in years. Not since that security breach with..." He thought for a moment. "Sam Logan."

"You didn't have much trouble remembering that one did you?"

"We don't have many traitors."

Rachel clenched her fists against an impulse she knew was wrong, especially in front of the boy behind her. "That's your opinion of the man," she replied in a reasonably composed tone.

"Facts," the agent countered and made a subtle motion with his hand for his men to fan out.

However, it was not subtle enough, and Rachel was already on her guard. She straightened. "Do yourself a favor, George. Don't start something with me you can't finish." Her tone became quite cold. "You have absolutely no concept of what you're up against with me this time."

"Possibilities versus improbabilities," Fox sighed, crossing his arms in front of him. "Truth or bluff." He paused again, unfolded his arms, and rested his fists on his hips. "A threat, McAllister? Or is it just a stall for time?"

Rachel smiled unexpectedly. Something she had seen in the trees just beyond the solders had just turned her uncertainty around and into a chance of getting out of Mason Corners with Paul and Scott and her baby. She hadn't wanted to hurt these men, not even Fox, but had seen no way around it until now. And that was why she now smiled. _The best defense is a great offense_ , she told herself and spoke up to answer Fox's last challenge—differently than she had intended to just a moment before. "You think I'm trying to stall. Why would I do that?" she asked crossing her arms. "To give Paul Forrester and his son a head start on your bloodhounds here, maybe?"

Every muscle in Scott's body suddenly tensed at what he heard her say, but the hand laid on his back by his father told him they should wait as she had asked. Scott knew that they owed her that much after all she had done, but that did not make it any easier to do.

Fox was caught off guard once again, this time by the blatant disclosure that she knew he was looking for Forrester. But Rachel laughed very lightly and shook her head at him.

"I hate to disappoint you, but you have my intentions all wrong, I'm afraid. In fact, if you'll cool down your troops, I'll even tell you where they are." Fox looked at her as if he could not have heard her correctly. "But," she said, pointing a warning finger at him, "there will be a couple of conditions involved."

"If you're trying to talk some kind of deal, I have to warn you," Fox started, but the woman laughed again.

"Deal? Oh, no. I don't care for government 'deals'," she told him. "Personally, I've always found them to be much more one-sided than two. What I said was that I would tell you...conditionally. You know, sort of a favor...for old time's sake." She paused a moment, then called over her shoulder. "Paul. Scott."

The teenager threw a look to his father. "What does she think she's doing?" he whispered.

"I guess we'll find out," Paul replied and started to rise, taking Scott's arm as a gesture for him to begin following his lead.

"We can't trust him," Scott protested once more in a whisper and putting up a little resistance to the tug.

"But we can trust her." Paul said. "She must have a reason for wanting us with her, and I don't believe it's to betray us." He got up, keeping his hold of Scott's arm, and led him out into the open with him. They stopped just behind Rachel.

Fox, his mouth open, did not know whether to laugh or give a cry of victory for a journey that finally seemed at an end. But instead, he managed a calm, reserved tone for a question. "What is it you want?"

"My conditions, you mean? They're very simple really," Rachel answered. Reaching back for Scott's hand and Paul's arm, she pulled them up beside her. Scott's hand was cold and wet with perspiration. It was understandable. She was asking quite a bit from him right now—from both of them. There were not many who would trust so completely, as Paul was doing, especially with his son. But it was his way, she was learning.

Fox advanced a step toward them and so did his men. Rachel tightened the grip she had on Scott's hand, hoping it would lessen some of his building anxiety. Fox obviously represented a very different kind of fear for the boy than Eric had.

Rather brazenly, Fox took another step. "I'm waiting," he told Rachel, holding his hands out in gesture for an answer. He was trying hard to retain his calm, taking his eyes off Paul for only short intervals to keep a modicum of eye contact with the woman.

Rachel sighed. "Simple. You and your men drop that artillery of yours, and then...you leave."

"Leave," Fox echoed incredulously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Rachel answered, then added specifics. "You leave this park and take any direction you like—except the one back to town—for at least twenty-four hours."

Fox laughed. "I'm supposed to pick up and go. Ignore all my orders," Fox surmised. "Leave these two that I've been tracking all over creation for fifteen years now. Leave the other one, who calls himself McKinnon that I've trailed for almost six months."

"Eric McKinnon is gone," Rachel informed him flatly.

"His car's still here," Fox insisted.

"He didn't need it to get where he was going," Rachel countered.

"And you, Miss McAllister. What about you? I believe the standing orders toward you are still..."

"Don't snow the issue, Fox. In this kind of situation, your orders are what you make them," Rachel snapped. "If you or your department heads had any conscience at all,..." She stopped herself for a moment to put a quick restraint on her temper. "No matter what you think of me, this man and his son are no threat to you. They're not a threat to anyone."

"He is not a man!" Fox's own temper made him clip back the accusation.

Scott and Paul both felt Rachel's grip tighten this time, but it was for a different reason. Her own emotions were slipping out of balance. "He's flesh and blood," she returned. "They both are. Thirty minutes earlier and you could have seen that well enough for yourself."

"He's an alien—something that's taken on a form belonging to someone else. It's a facade, nothing more!" Fox blurted back, having no idea, of course, to what she had just referred. "And it's gone far enough! Just like this conversation!" He motioned for his men to take them.

Rachel dropped the hold she had on Paul's arm and put out a hand as a gesture for them to stop. However, it was more than a mere gesture because when the soldiers lunged forward, they were met with a stronger, opposing force that pushed them back and off their feet. They got up, shaking their heads, a little dazed from the bouncing.

"That, gentlemen, was a warning," Rachel told them, her tone less diplomatic now. Diplomacy had never worked in the past. She wondered now why she had even attempted it, especially with this agent—the man who had probably in his whole life never bargained with anyone and then kept up his end of it.

After glancing around at his men and seeing the uncertainty that had appeared on their faces, Fox shouted at them angrily, "You have your orders! Use your rifles and get it over with!"

The tranquillizer rifles were leveled immediately at the command.

"Oh-h, no!" Rachel protested angrily at the threat and swept her hand across the space just in front of the three of them.

The guns fired, but the darts failed to hit their marks. They bounced harmlessly away from the energy field Rachel had just thrown up to repel them.

Fox and the others stood stunned. Scott was amused, but showed no more than a slight smile. Rachel stared at Fox, too disgusted with his attitude to be amused.

"Don't try my patience, mister!" she said, anger very clear in her voice. "I haven't got any to spare right now." She kept her hand up to help her focus, since the distractions were multiplying, as well as the stress factors.

Fox regained his composure again and took a few steps forward, his arm extended, his fingers outstretched to emphasize his next words. However, when his fingertips met with an energy field rather abruptly, sparks burst out, and he jerked his hand back quickly from the shock of contact. "What the...?" he exclaimed, giving Rachel a surprised yet vicious look.

"What is it, sir?" one of the lieutenants asked him.

"A force field of some kind."

"A repulsion field to be exact," Rachel told him flatly. "And one you don't want to collide with. Not if you want to keep standing. And tell your men not to try their weapons again, especially the guns they're carrying with the live ammunition. If you use them, you'll find out the answer to the age-old question of Zeno's Paradox. You remember him from your history, George...the Greek philosopher who spent his life trying to prove the unreality of motion. You know. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, I can guarantee this force field is an immovable object. The bullets will ricochet." She shook her head. "Don't get any of your men hurt just because you're too stubborn to listen to reason."

"Do as she says," Fox told the others, realizing that at the moment the woman had them at a definite disadvantage. He had forgotten over the years the kind of danger she presented. He stood silently for a minute, then turned around and walked back toward Wylie and the other men. He mulled over the situation for a few more seconds, then turned back to Rachel. "Tell me, just how is it you came to be with these two, Miss McAllister?" he asked her.

"Let's just say I like the company," Rachel returned. "A lot better than some I've had the displeasure of knowing."

Fox recognized the insult for what it was, but reserved any comments on it. "You know, a lot of things have changed...feelings have changed...about cases like yours, McAllister. And if you were to help us, say with Forrester here, I could talk to the Department, to General Wade. Maybe even,.."

"Put her in an adjoining observation chamber to ours," Scott blurted out and felt Rachel squeeze his hand again.

"I'm afraid the boy has his doubts about your intentions," she told Fox. "Frankly, I have none, but then I know you're lying. Because I know you, and have known you a long time—before Scott was even born."

"And I know you," Fox countered. "Perhaps better than you'd like to think. I know you have limits."

"Everyone has his or her limits," she agreed, noncommittally.

"Time is one of yours. Just how long do you think you can maintain this force field and keep me and my men here?"

"It's been fifteen long years, George, since you tangled with me. I can keep you here long enough for you to consider Antarctica an exciting vacation spot," she told him truthfully and lowered her voice warningly. "Push me hard enough, Fox, and I'll send you there myself—from here." She felt Paul's hand as he laid it gently on the back of her neck. Calm replaced her agitation, and she knew better than to fight it.

Paul had his own edge in some matters. She took a deep breath. "But there's no reason to put any of us through any more of this," she said, returning to a fact the conversation had almost let her forget, but the movement among the trees and bushes around the clearing quickly reminded her. "I'll tell you what. Since you refuse to leave us, Paul and Scott and I will simply leave you."

"You won't get out of the park," Fox told them.

"Once the field is down," Scott said to her, "they'll be after us, and Dad can't..."

"I'm fine, Scott," Paul stopped him before he could say anything else.

"Oh, I have no doubt about our man here following us," Rachel told him, then paused a moment before she added with a slight smile, "But he won't do so for a while. I'm afraid Agent Fox and his men are going to experience a slight delay in their departure."

Wylie's expression showed immediate concern. "What are you going to do to us?" he asked nervously, but Fox clipped him off.

"Be quiet, Wylie."

Rachel laughed lightly. "Don't worry," she told the assistant. "No matter what your boss here says or thinks, hurting people comes under your rules of conduct, not mine, and definitely not Paul's. I wish you could see that, but..." She sighed and then spoke in a much louder voice. "Show yourselves to these men, my friends," she said to those hidden among the foliage beyond Fox and his soldiers.

Scott took an instinctive step back from what began to appear out of the thick forest area. Rachel released his hand and put her arm around his waist. He also felt his father's hand when he reached around Rachel to lay it on his back. It wasn't that Scott was so frightened, but he was definitely startled by what he was seeing. Fox and his men, however, were more than startled.

All along the perimeter of the clearing, animals were gathering. Some of them were big ones. Two pair of bobcats sat on the elevated area where Rachel, Paul, and Scott had been when they had learned of the arrival of the men. There were moose and deer gathered in various spots, and a pair of black bears, with their three cubs, came to rest just inside the north edge. Scott counted at least half a dozen hawks and two eagles perched in the treetops in easy view of the men below. All sizes and species continued to come out and position themselves, some settling between Fox's group and Paul, Rachel, and Scott, until the eight men were totally surrounded.

"What are they...?" Scott barely breathed the words.

"You wanted the cavalry," Rachel whispered back, but keeping her eyes on the men. "If you have any thoughts about using your weapons," she said, speaking to the men again, "I would think twice. In the first place, even though they intend no harm to you, firing into them would be extremely foolish. It just might serve to change their minds. And in the second place, federal agents or not, you're not allowed to kill an endangered species and most of these animals are on that list. And, all of them are protected in this forest—national park, you know."

"Even if you manage somehow to make it out of the park, you won't get out of the county," Fox told her, half of him raging, half of him still trying to reason with the woman. "You'll be picked up before you can even get to town!"

"He never gives up, does he?" Scott commented in a whisper to his dad, and Paul moved his hand to his shoulder.

"I don't think so," was Rachel's comeback to the FSA agent.

"You're a fool, Miss McAllister, if you think these are the only men I brought with me."

"Oh, I know you too well for that, George," she returned. "I'm sure you have the city and state police on alert...probably the rangers in this park as well." A slight nod of the man's head, whether consciously done or not, told Rachel she had figured the situation correctly. Her eyes ran over the men with him as she added, "And I'm also just as sure you have more Air Force uniforms in the area than just these fellows."

"Like I said before," Fox told her, "you can't get away from me—not this time."

Rachel stared at him solemnly a moment, then smiled and spoke very calmly. "We won't have any trouble. Not after you take that radio of yours and call off your posse."

It was Fox who smiled this time, then he laughed. "No way," he told her, shaking his head.

"Don't force me to get unpleasant," she said, her tone turning a little ominous, but his expression told her he still wasn't going to budge. She released a sigh. "Do you remember Portoviejo, George?" she asked.

There was a noticeable change in the agent's eyes, even though the man tried to hide it. He remembered Ecuador all right, and he imagined the three guides he had had with him that day would never forget it either. He reached down and unclipped his radio from his belt.

"Speak up so we can all hear you, please," Rachel told him, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief this time that he had backed down from her challenge. What had happened in Portoviejo those many years ago had been nothing more than an accident. Fox and the men with him had gotten caught in the same landslide as Rachel and her guardian. She had always guessed that he had believed that slide to be her doing; now she had confirmation. The irony of it was that he was now backing down because of that belief, while in reality she had actually saved his life and the lives of his party, not endangered them.

"This is George Fox," the agent spoke into his radio, looked back at the young woman briefly, then continued talking. "The suspects have been sighted heading north out of the park, probably going for Federal Highway 395 and Nevada." He took a breath. "Repeat, the suspects are heading north."

"We both know you can be more convincing than that," Rachel said quietly, but pointedly, after she heard several of the questions that had come back over Fox's radio.

Fox took another deep breath, fought with his sense of duty a moment, then added a line over the radio he hoped would satisfy the McAllister woman. "All units prepare roadblocks north out of the park and on 395." He took one more breath and ended with a much harsher note in his voice to add conviction. "Immediately!"

After hearing several acknowledgements, Rachel spoke up again. "Now, toss it to the ground," She waited a moment, then added, "Please." He finally complied, throwing it down in front of him. "Tell the others to do the same with theirs," she said. "All of them."

Fox gestured to the other men, and those who carried one, tossed a radio next to the first.

"Thank you," Rachel told them, then spoke to the man beside her. "Paul, will you take care of those please?"

Paul was quite willing to comply with the request. Despite her words to the contrary, he could sense that she was beginning to tire. He took his sphere from his pocket, and only a few brief moments after it began to glow, the radios were destroyed in a burst of sparks. The men jumped back, startled by the display, but soon all was quiet again, and they found themselves quite unharmed—at least for the moment, they were thinking. There were several rustlings in the bushes around them, and they glanced from one point of the clearing to the other at the animals. The conversation between their superior and the woman had sidetracked their feelings temporarily, but now their uneasiness about the proximity of the park's wildlife was growing again.

"You can't leave us here like this," Fox protested.

"I did give you a chance to leave. Remember?" Rachel was quick to remind him.

"They're capable of..."

"Yes," Rachel said before Fox could complete his statement. "But they won't. Like I said, they don't intend you any harm—as long as you don't provoke them, of course. By moonrise they will have all gone, I'm sure. They have families to go home to, after all. That's something that they seem to have over you in understanding. Maybe you should take note, George."

"It's obvious you have some kind of control over them. What makes you think that after you leave, they won't attack us?"

"You're working under a false assumption, George," she told him. "I'm not controlling them at all. They came here on their own. Unlike man, they have a very good sense of who is and who isn't a threat to them. I suggest you just have a seat and relax. They have. It's only a few hours until the moon comes up." She started walking, Paul and Scott following her lead, but she turned back to Fox. "While you're here, you might ponder just a little the feeling of being inside the cage looking out."

With those final words, they walked out of sight, but not before Paul gave a wink and a mental thank you to the young bobcat who had given them so much help that day.

As far as Scott was concerned, something was still disturbing him a little. One of the animals had particularly caught his attention and held it more than the other animals—a huge grizzly bear that had appeared from a thicket almost straight across from the other bears.

"I didn't think black bears and grizzlies got along all that well," Scott told Rachel as she caught up with them and slipped an arm around his waist.

"Oh, they don't usually," she answered honestly, then smiled. "Maybe he was just in the neighborhood. Passing through, you know." She shrugged. "I think he was just curious about the whole thing. Besides, an offer's an offer. Just think of him as the John Wayne of the group."

"Don't worry, Scott," Paul told him, "They won't hurt each other or any of those men."

Scott looked more relieved, and Rachel tightened the hold she had around him. "They live by their own set of rules, and they believe in abiding by them," she said. "They've always been better about that than humans. I find their attitude quite refreshing in contrast." Then she quipped, "They're usually better conversationalists than most, too."

"No kidding," Scott said, then shook his head, bemused by the absolutely outlandish conversation they were having at the moment. "You know, I think I can safely say this without any fear of contradiction," he told her. "You are one really weird lady."

Rachel laughed and glanced over to Paul. His mind was obviously in other directions at the moment. Eric, she suspected. She reached up and wiped at the corner of his mouth.

"You're bleeding again," she told him, and he wiped the front side of his hand across the cut, flinching a little at the sting. "I think you need a few lessons in the art of boxing, Paul," she teased.

Paul blushed a little, but it was Scott who spoke up.

"That's OK," he said, exchanging glances with his dad. "I sort of like him the way he is."

Paul tossed him a grateful smile, but there was also a touch of pride behind it. After what had been happening to them since his return and particularly what had happened that day, it gave him an extremely pleasant, warm feeling about his son's answer.

Rachel gave a short laugh and smoothed Scott's hair in the back. "I can appreciate that," she said. "So how about a couple of lessons in ducking instead?"

Scott smiled back. "Yeah, that he could use."

"I thought I was a pretty good swimmer," Paul protested lightly, but when he saw a bit of a stunned look on Scott's face, he laughed. "Just kidding."

Scott looked back at the woman. "I just can't tell sometimes," he said honestly.

"I can imagine," she returned, cocking an amused look in Paul's direction. He just smiled and said nothing in defense of the statement because it was quite true. He was learning that teasing could be fun. He switched positions with Rachel, so that he was in the middle and next to Scott. He was favoring the shoulder again, which said that Rachel's nerve suppression was beginning to wear off, something Paul's other perceptions confirmed.

Scott became quiet, looking rather pensive and staring into the forest area as they passed.

"Scott, is there something still bothering you about today?" Paul asked him, wanting as much as possible in the open between them.

The teenager thought about it for a minute, then decided he should ask the question pressing on his mind. "Did you really steal a ship to come back here?"

"Yes," Paul answered. "I guess you'd have to say I did."

Scott tried to curb his reaction to the confirmation of Eric's accusation, but he did want to know his father's side. "Why?" he asked him.

Paul did not have to think before giving his answer. "Because the Council of Elders told me I couldn't come back here. Taking the ship was the only alternative I saw available to me at the time."

"The logical alternative," Scott rephrased pointedly.

"No, the whole thing was quite emotional," Paul told him very seriously. Then he smiled and added, "Just how logical do you think I was on my choice of Paul Forrester? I was lucky when I chose to become Scott Hayden, but Paul Forrester? I think there are plenty of times we both wish I hadn't been so quick to take advantage of that accident in the mountains, especially after we began to find out what Forrester had been like."

"What I'm thankful for is that it's only his looks you copied. I think your former explorer friend did more than just take on McKinnon's physical appearance."

"It's possible," Paul said.

"I'd just rather have your personality than Forrester's any day," Scott told him honestly. His father gave him a smile to say thank you, and they were all silent again for several steps before Scott changed tracks again. "Well," he sighed, "I guess this means good-bye to Mason Corners."

Paul sighed in return. "Yep, looks like we're on the road again." He turned to Rachel, who had been silent for quite a while now. "Three of us this time."

Rachel shrugged that it was just as normal a situation for her as it was for them. "That's the way it goes," she said.

Scott exchanged looks with his dad, and seeing what he recognized as agreement, turned to Rachel. "Would you like to stick with us for a while? Of course, it's not always this exciting," he teased. "Most of the time it's just one boring catastrophe after another."

Rachel had to laugh. How true! "I might be persuaded," she said grinning. "I think I could use some company for a few days until I get myself geared back to traveling. You two come by my place after you've packed up, and, if you still want me along, then I'll take you up on the invitation for a while."

"Why should we feel differently in an hour or so?" Paul wanted to know.

She shrugged. "Just give it a little time, between the two of you. And remember, it's not just me."

"You mean your daughter," Scott said, and Rachel nodded.

"My eighteen-month-old daughter."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Paul assured her. "Scott's great with children. He put his arm around him, then added teasingly, "Most of the time."

Scott tried to ignore the cut, but Rachel laughed, then Scott followed, and Paul smiled simply because he liked to see his son smiling again—in genuine amusement.

They were not far from the car now, which was a two-fold relief. It would take them back to Mason Corners and away from what only could be termed as a horrendous day.

CHAPTER 10

Rachel left Paul and Scott at their apartment, and their agreement stood that they would meet her at her place within the hour.

Paul sat Scott down and used the quiet and solitude they had for the moment to repair the cracked shoulder blade. This time, the bruises were taken care of as well, even those on the teenager's face. There was no reason now not to do so.

Then, once again, the two found themselves packing up, choosing this and that to take or leave, making sure that a few new memories were included.

Scott released a short sigh as he retrieved a bookmark from his civics book. A young lady had made it for him for his birthday a couple of schools back. He felt his dad's hand on his shoulder, and he turned around.

"I'm ready," he said, noting the vast improvement in his father's looks. Paul had changed shirts and cleaned up the jacket, and his color was returning. "We'll have to get your jacket fixed next stop," he told him.

Paul grimaced. "Does look a little worse for wear."

"You'll just have to learn to take better care of your things, Dad," the teenager chided.

Paul caught him around the neck. "Let's go."

"Yeah," Scott returned, his voice perking up. "After Rachel turned out to be who she was, I want to see that baby of hers." He picked up his pack and shouldered Paul's camera case. "I wonder if she'll ever have any of her mother's powers." He paused a moment, thinking about what had happened that day. "Like I have yours," he finished.

Paul shook his head. "I don't know, Scott." He could see that his son was still uncomfortable with some of the things he had just learned about himself. "Don't you want me to carry that?" he asked, referring to the camera equipment.

"No, that's OK," Scott replied. "I think you should give your shoulder at least a day."

"It's fine," he argued. "You did a very good job repairing it."

Scott continued out the door ahead of his dad. "It was still a first try. Playing it on the safe side won't hurt." He turned around as Paul closed and locked the door. "You sure it feels all right?"

"It's fine," Paul repeated a little more strongly, then held up four fingers, which he spread into a 'V'. "Scout's honor."

Scott shook his head, barely forcing back some of his amusement. "Wrong planet, Dad. Scout's honor is three fingers—together." He showed him.

"Then what's this?" Paul repeated the first gesture. "I know I've seen it."

"Oh, you've seen it," Scott assured him. "I'd explain now, but it's a long story. Maybe after I have a nap," he concluded. "A very long nap."  
  
---  
  
Rachel's apartment was easy enough to locate. Her directions had been explicit. Scott knocked on the door, and after a moment they heard the dead bolt click. When she opened the door, Rachel gestured them inside. She was now in jeans and a long-sleeved pullover sweater.

"Shouldn't you have at least asked who we were?" Paul teased her, but she shook her head and grinned.

"Real cute." She turned to walk into the kitchen. "You can drop your stuff on the couch there for a few minutes. I'm almost finished. I figured some sandwiches and such wouldn't hurt."

"Food is never a bad idea," Scott declared.

"Didn't think so," Rachel said, replacing the lid on a jar and licking the end of her finger where the peanut butter had managed to miss the bread.

A cat jumped up on the couch next to where Scott was leaning against the back of it. She pushed her head under his hand.

"Must be Mandy," Paul told him, reaching over to pet her, too, scratching her ears. She purred loudly at the attention she was getting.

"You remembered," Rachel said, walking out of the kitchen again and sitting on one of the counter stools a moment to catch her breath.

Scott glanced over to her and smiled. "He remembers everything." He looked around the apartment a moment, then asked, "Where's your little girl?"

"She's in the back bedroom. My sitter is helping me get her ready."

"What did you tell her about having to leave so suddenly like this?" Scott asked. Most of his and his father's departures had been made with no explanations at all. It was obvious that Rachel was not afforded that kind of so-called luxury with the extra responsibilities that came with having a baby with her.

"I told her what I could. Just enough to let her know it's something I have to do, but not enough for the government to complicate her life." Rachel got up and walked to the edge of the hallway leading to the bedroom and her study. "Caterina?" she called, and a Hispanic girl, who looked as if she were in her late teens or early twenties, came out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway toward them.

The girl walked into the room to stand by Rachel. In her arms she carried a toddler, a beautiful little girl in blonde curls and with dark blue eyes.

"Paul, Scott, this is Caterina Velasquez...and Sara," she said, smoothing the baby's curls affectionately, then laid a hand on the young lady's shoulder. "Caterina, these are the friends I told you about. Paul Forrester and his son, Scott,"

"How do you do?" the woman nodded to each of them. Her accent was delicate, not chopped. "I am very pleased to meet you." She smiled and turned to Rachel. "And I'm glad they both look to be strong men. You need that, Rachel."

"Caterina," Rachel started to scold her, but the young lady turned back to speak to Paul and Scott too quickly. "You will take good care of her and the nina, won't you?" The request was more of a admonishment than a question.

Paul answered for them both. "We will take good care of them."

Rachel reached out her hands to the baby, who all but fell into her arms, glad to be held by her mother.

"She's beautiful," Scott said, unable to take his eyes from the baby.

"Why, thank you," Rachel told him. "That's always nice to hear from an impartial source."

At that moment, the baby's attention diverted to something she saw on the couch and lying beside Paul's camera case. She reached out her hands to it.

"Bear!" she said, and Paul and Scott both turned to see if they could see the item she wanted and retrieve it for her.

However, quite unexpectedly, as if it had heard its mistress' command, the stuffed bear rose up and started on its way through the air to her. Scott saw it first and tried hard not to react in a way that might alert the sitter. Paul not only saw the movement of the bear, but the fact that Rachel was too shocked at what was happening to counter the move. Therefore, he threw in a subtle distraction of his own, causing a picture to fall behind the women.

Luckily, Caterina's focus had been on the baby and not to what she had pointed, and startled by the noise of the falling picture, she turned around in the opposite direction of the psionic display. Scott grabbed for the stuffed bear just as it was about to pass him. He hid it quickly behind his back as his face expressed the idea that nothing had just happened. He'd had a good deal of practice at it, after all. He looked to Rachel, but from her expression, she was going to be no help at all for the moment.

The toddler frowned at the boy who had deliberately deterred her toy and appeared to have intentions of doing something a little more drastic to get it from him. Paul was about to warn Scott, but Rachel gathered her composure and pulled the baby's hands down.

"No," she told her. "You mustn't." The baby's frown deepened. "No!" Rachel admonished more firmly, and the baby conceded to authority and settled back against her mother, although unquestionably disappointed.

Caterina retrieved the picture from the floor and placed it on the kitchen cabinet then proceeded to clean up what Rachel had left in the kitchen. The three in the living room breathed a sigh of relief.

Scott walked over to Rachel and held out the bear to the toddler Sara. "Sorry," he apologized as the bear was snatched and clasped tightly in both her arms. However, before Scott could turn away, the toddler released the bear with one hand and reached out to him. Without a second thought, he received her willingly, and she gave him a big hug. He hugged her back, turning to look at his dad, who looked amused by what had just happened. Scott shrugged that he didn't understand. "I keep her toy away from her, and now she gives me a hug like nothing happened."

"Like I've always told you, Scott; children like you," Paul quipped, remembering perhaps less affectionate, but still rather memorable incidents. Small children did seem to take well to his son. "Or maybe she feels that the two of you have something in common," he added in a lower tone.

Scott looked at him questioningly a moment, then smiled when it hit him what his father meant.

Caterina came back out of the kitchen. "If you will all excuse me, I need to go finish packing Sara's things," she told them.

Rachel walked over to her, stopping her before she got to the hallway. "I gave you the keys to the apartment and to my desk at school, right?"

"I have them, Rachel. Stop worrying. I can't think of anything you haven't said at least twice. I'll take care of things at the school, and I'll send you your paycheck the minute I hear from you. Just don't wait too long to call because you know how I worry." She smiled. "And you can just forget about the government men. I'll deal with them."

"She knows about Fox?" asked Scott.

"She had to know. This'll be one of the first places he looks," Rachel told him, and the boy nodded the truth of that one.

"Just be careful, Caterina," Rachel said, putting her hands on the girl's shoulders. "They're capable of saying or doing most anything to get what they want."

"I don't care if they say you're from Venus," the girl replied, and Scott had to look away for a moment.

"Be that as it may," Rachel said, deliberately detouring the comment, "I just don't want you in any trouble because of me. You've been too good to Sara and me."

"And I cannot do enough to repay what you have done to help me," Caterina countered and turned to Paul and Scott. "I am nineteen. I came here from San Salvador to get away from the killing there. I wanted to continue my schooling but couldn't find enough work to pay for a place to live and the tuition it took for a foreigner to go to one of your colleges. My English wasn't very good then either. I tried night classes to learn more English and met Rachel. Before I knew it, she'd taken me in and given me a job taking care of her baby. And she paid me more than she should, I know.

She's been my teacher in the evenings for more than just English to help me prepare for the college entrance exams. It is my dream to go. My father was a professor at a university in my country." Her eyes became sad at the mention of family. "He and my mother were killed in the revolution, as my brother was. They all wanted me to be a teacher, too, and I intend to try my best. I've passed the exams and now have enough saved to start a few classes next semester. Rachel's made all that possible for me. How can you repay someone for so much?"

Rachel slipped her arm around the girl's waist. "You've been my friend," she told her sincerely and took her hand. "I know I'm repeating, but remember what I told you about the apartment and the money. Stay here at least until the semester starts, and..."

"Don't use the money for anything else except for school," Caterina finished, laughing. "I know. I remember," she insisted, then hugged the woman. "I can take care of myself, and I will tell the men looking for you absolutely nothing they want to hear."

Rachel laughed this time, too. "I can just imagine." She turned to the other two. "I've found that this young lady can be quite a little terror when it comes to what you might call verbal camouflage."

"Verbal camouflage?" asked Paul. New and unusual phrases always caught his attention.

"Caterina's very good at making someone believe she just crossed the border yesterday," Rachel explained.

" _Si_ ," Caterina said, speaking now with an extremely thick Spanish accent. "I speak little English, _senor_. And my memory of the _senorita_ who live here _es muy malo_. She leave with no warning to me. _Muy extrano!_ " Then with her next words, the accent all but disappeared. "Of course, if you wish to talk 'extrano,' government—any government—would be high on the list of 'strange,' don't you think?"

Paul arched an eyebrow at the abrupt changes in her speech. Scott had to laugh. Subterfuge at its best all right, he thought.

"You're very good," Scott told her.

" _Gracias_ ," she smiled back, suddenly a little sorry that the boy was her junior in years. He was quite handsome.

"It usually works without too much fuss," Rachel said. "Of course, if the congeniality doesn't work, I found she has one whale of a temper for such a little thing."

"I do not need much of an excuse to get angry when someone tries to speak badly of a friend." She looked at Rachel a moment, then sighed. "I have to finish packing for Sara," she said, but as she turned to leave, Paul spoke to her.

"Rachel's very lucky to have someone like you for her friend," he said.

The girl smiled her thank you and then turned and walked back down the hallway.

"Why, Paul, I'm surprised at you," Rachel teased.

Paul met her look with a rather confused one. He'd meant it as a compliment.

"You don't usually understate things," Rachel explained.

"She's got you there," Scott picked up on the tease, referring to his dad's often blatant honesty. Paul just shrugged as Scott usually did when he had nothing to add to what was said.

"Well, since you two can obviously handle Sara for a few minutes, I'll finish getting my own things together," Rachel told them, also turning to go to the bedroom. "We need to get going, and I don't want to draw out the good-byes."

After she left the room, Scott hugged the baby and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I don't blame her," he said half aloud. "I don't like them much myself."

Paul walked up to him and chucked Sara under the chin ever so gently. "Someday I hope it will be different for us."

"I know, Dad," Scott said and gave the baby another squeeze. His own thoughts went to his mother now. His memories of her when he had been Sara's age were cloudy, but he held to them as stubbornly as if they were crystal clear. "Someday for all of us," he added.  
  
---  
  
By late evening, Paul, Scott, Rachel, Sara, and Mandy were well on their way from Mason Corners and traveling northeast toward the mountains. The countryside was less open, and side roads abounded. Paul drove, and Rachel navigated, both hoping to put as much confused distance between them and the FSA as possible.

In the backseat was Scott, lying down—as well as he could, under the circumstances. He had the toddler cradled against his chest, his right arm around her. Her arms were tightly around his, and both were fast asleep.

"I knew he'd really sleep after he finally got stopped," Rachel said watching them.

"The pain is gone," Paul said quietly, "but the memories of what happened are still very strong."

"I'm afraid that's something not even ordinary parents can do anything about, Paul. Some things happen that are beyond our control. It's just a part of life."

"So I'm learning," Paul said.

After a few minutes of silence and stroking Mandy's fur as the cat lay sleeping between them on the front seat, Rachel spoke up again. "Paul, what am I going to do with my Sara now?"

He looked over to her. "You didn't expect it to happen, did you?"

She shook her head. "And to complicate the whole thing more, she's so young. How can I make an eighteen-month-old baby understand that what she's able to do naturally, everyone around her will find terrifying?"

"Not everyone," Paul reminded her.

She smiled, blushing a little. "You know what I mean."

"I know," he returned.

"I don't suppose I could borrow Scott for, say, three or four years," she teased, cocking him a side glance.

"Who would referee?" Paul quipped back, and the woman laughed.

"You've got a point." She sighed. "I wish I could have Caterina with me. I think she would have understood all of it."

"She would have," Paul said without hesitation. "Maybe you should have told her and given her the choice."

Rachel shook her head. "No. She has to have her own life for a while. I know what she's been through. And I know what it's like to have to learn a new language and adapt to new customs. I went through it more times than I care to count. No, she needs to find her place and then be able to enjoy it for a while—in peace."

"Where will you go now?" Paul asked her.

Rachel shook her head, saddening a bit at having to contemplate the question again. Her hand made longer strokes down Mandy's back. "I'm thinking about going home," she said, "to New Mexico." She glanced over to Paul and was not surprised to see him meet her eyes with a questioning look. "Actually, I've been thinking about it a long time—before any of this happened. Thinking about what the FSA would think about it." She shrugged, and Paul turned back to the road.

"And what do you think they would think you would do?" he asked.

Rachel smiled broadly, obviously amused by something. "I was thinking the same sort of double-talk conclusion as you just said," she answered, then explained when his face only showed added confusion. "You know. My home would be an obvious place to look; therefore, they wouldn't figure I would go there. On the other hand, they've been harassing me so long, they know I'm aware of how they think; therefore, maybe I'd go there because I figure they think I'm far too smart to go there. Then again, because I figure they figure I figure they figure, I would then steer completely clear of New Mexico, figuring they would believe it would definitely be the place I would head for. Follow me so far?" she teased, knowing it was a 3-D maze she had just handed him, but Paul had learned quite a bit about puzzles and was getting quite good at solving them.

"Fox and the FSA won't look for you in New Mexico," he summed it up quite simply.

Rachel laughed lightly. "Unless their operatives have drastically changed their way of conducting the hunt, they won't even bother considering the state of New Mexico at all, much less the reservation where I grew up."

"Reservation?" Paul was trying to place the right meaning with the word.

"Indian reservation," Rachel told him. "It's where..."

"Yes, I've read about them in Scott's books on government and history," he said, preventing her from having to go through a lengthy explanation. "Congress set certain lands aside for the Indians. They are part of the U.S., but have their own government as well."

"Legal jurisdictions in some areas are very...vague, even unique." She scratched Mandy behind her right ear, and the cat purred loudly. "I've thought about that part quite a bit, too." She turned to Paul again. "I was always afraid to try it out before. I didn't want to bring my friends more trouble than they already have. But now...now that Sara..."

"Sara has her mother's powers," Paul remarked, glancing at the young woman briefly, then back to the highway. "Like Scott, she'll share the same danger as her parent."

"Yes."

"You said you had no family. Do you have friends at this reservation that will help?"

"I'm hoping they're still there," she answered. "I broke contact a long time ago because of the trouble the FSA might cause them."

"That was difficult to do," Paul remarked, hearing the added sadness in her voice.

Rachel nodded. "Yes. Oh, Paul, I would love for Sara to know Oshanna and..." She stopped a moment, remembering, "And to hear Rolling Thunder."

Paul had to look back at her. "I did not know hearing thunder was an important thing," he said innocently.

Rachel laughed again. "No, Paul, Rolling Thunder is a man. It's an Indian name—actually, a translation of one. In this case, it's the name of a very old shaman. He taught me many things when I was a child. After the fever, he taught me how to deal with my...gifts." She looked briefly at the backseat and her sleeping daughter. "I hope very much that he's still alive. I want Sara to learn from him as I did."

"If he isn't, she will still learn from him," Paul told her, "through you."

She nodded, then after a moment of silence, spoke up again. "Paul, you and Scott should come with us. Stay on the reservation for a time. Scott could learn so much. So could you. You might even be safer there than..."

"It's important we find Jenny Hayden before we can think of settling anywhere," Paul answered.

Rachel sighed. "I understand. But it's just so very hard, going from place to place, when you're a child..." She shook her head and glanced into the distance as far as the headlights would let her see. "Not knowing who you can choose as your friends...who will be your friends...who you can count on and trust."

"Scott and I have met so many people since we've been traveling together," Paul told her. "We've met several Caterinas—people who help us just because we needed help, not because we asked them. I've found that when you put your trust in someone and are honest with them, you very often get their trust in return."

"I guess I've grown a bit cynical over the years," she confessed. "Betrayal tends to make one overly cautious."

"Caution never hurts. Scott reminds me of that all the time. But I've learned that too much can keep you from trying new things...things that might be good."

'"Better to trust and be deceived...'," Rachel quoted, and Paul raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's an old poem I remembered when you said that," she explained, then smiled. "If I could have one wish, Paul Forrester, it would be that everyone on this planet could have your compassion and innocence for just one day." Then her smile broadened when he looked over to her, and she saw that he didn't quite understand. "I think it could get really habit-forming, if they'd let it. It's not impossible, you know."

"Nothing's impossible," Paul smiled back now, "unless you make it that way."

Rachel simply stared at him a moment before she spoke. "I'm glad I've had the chance to know you, Paul. You're a good man, and you have a fine son."

"We're two people who want to have our family together. That's all," he said quietly, putting his concentration back on the highway ahead.

"You will, Paul," she told him.

"Yes," he replied, confidently this time because that was the one thing he was determined to accomplish, if nothing else. Watching lines pass under the headlights of the car, he started thinking of Jenny again.

Rachel settled back, resting her head down on the seat and her hand on her cat and thought of the home she had not seen in so very long. Perhaps she could secure a position in the reservation's school that would allow her the opportunity to teach as her mother had.

In the back, Sara continued to sleep contentedly in the security of Scott's arms. For Scott, his dreams remained pleasant and peaceful tonight. As far as he was concerned, with this day behind them and McKinnon light years away from Earth by now, it was George Fox's turn to dream of bears in the woods.

FINIS


End file.
